Bloodborne
by ellijay
Summary: The Doctor joins the Torchwood team to go vampire hunting in Cardiff, but his past catches up with him as he becomes the target of revenge.
1. Concerning Vampires

"Bloodborne" by ellijay

Summary: The Doctor joins the Torchwood team to go vampire hunting in Cardiff, but his past catches up with him as he becomes the target of revenge.

Author's Notes: Many, many thanks to readerjane for her extraordinary beta-reading skills. Her input and spot-on critique illuminated my blind spots and challenged me to consider aspects of the story that weren't even on my radar. As a result of her tireless efforts, this story has come a long way from where it began and is hopefully much better now at the end of the journey.

Thank-you to reddwarfaddict as well for her beta-reading and encouragement early in the writing process. Her enthusiasm lifted my spirits on many occasions and kept me going during times when I was asking myself, "Why am I writing a vampire story? I don't _do_ vampire stories!"

Thanks also go to aranhe for doing a run-through on the first couple of chapters to make sure I'd crossed the i's and dotted the t's, in particular keeping me from having American expressions break into the p.o.v. or dialogue of British characters. If anyone sees errors in that respect in later chapters, please feel free to let me know. I'm completely willing to make adjustments even after posting.

And yet more thanks to the creators of the Visual Guide to the Torchwood Hub ( porto/guides/hub/). I can be a real stickler for accuracy, and the amazing level of detail on the site was of enormous value to me in building a mental landscape of the Hub so I didn't have to do so much guessing or plain making stuff up.

Warning (of a sort): Realizing that readers will have varying levels of tolerance for certain types of subject matter, I want to point out that this story does contain situations with erotic subtext that some might find disturbing. It is not, however, an erotic story, rather a hurt/comfort story with vampires as antagonists. There is nothing that I would call blatantly sexual, only the kind of hints and innuendo that are often found in tales about vampires.

* * *

Chapter 1 – "Concerning Vampires"

Jack Harkness had met quite a variety of aliens in his lifetime so far, but he had yet to meet a vampire. Sure, he'd known a handful of people capable of making him feel as if every bodily fluid had been sucked out of his body, and he'd met more than a few that liked to bite or preferred night-time to the day, but those were just quirks – apart from the one who really had been natively nocturnal. But he'd never run into a real-life, fanged, blood-sucking vampire.

Now he was trying to track down a group of them, at least if vague eyewitness reports of shadowy figures were to be believed. Jack was tending towards accepting the accounts of multiples rather than just one. That's just how his luck tended to run, but he hoped it was going to turn because he desperately wanted and needed to put an end to the trail of bodies they were leaving across Cardiff. He and his team had just ended a particularly grueling vampire hunt that had been set in motion by the discovery of the sixth body in as many days. Puncture wounds on the neck and sucked dry of blood, every single victim.

Over thirty-six hours of almost non-stop searching, and they'd come up empty. The vampires must've caught wind of their investigation and gone to ground because there hadn't been a body found in all of that time. He supposed it was possible they'd moved on or someone else had already dealt with them, but his instincts told him it was only a matter of time before they emerged again.

He'd sent his team home for a rest, but warned them to keep their mobiles charged and on in case he needed to call them in again. He hadn't been able to settle his racing mind, though, so he'd decided to fill the time going over the vampire research Gwen had already done. He fully trusted in her abilities, but with the vast majority of the information they had at hand consisting of myths and legends, he figured it wouldn't hurt to have another set of eyes searching for the needle of truth in the folklore haystack.

He really hadn't been hoping for much. He'd found in the past that specific stories or historical accounts sometimes yielded useful information, but he considered generic superstitions to be suspect since they often proved to be based on little more than fear or ignorance. Unfortunately his pessimism seemed to be well-founded in this case. Even the stories surrounding Vlad the Impaler were varied and conflicting and further muddied by countless fictionalized versions.

He growled in frustration, raised his arms over his head and stretched until his spine popped. That took care of one problem. He rubbed at dry and scratchy eyes and squinted at the computer screen, but was unable to focus well enough to continue reading. And he was generally tired in a way that went beyond simple fatigue. He'd either have to take a long break or go rummaging in Dr. Inman's medical supplies until he found something that would help with his exhaustion. Considering her reaction the last time he'd done that without her permission, he should probably go with option one.

He took one last glance at his computer screen and suppressed a shudder at the drawings and photos scattered over the page. It wasn't their appearance that made him uneasy. He'd seen aliens who looked far stranger and more intimidating. And he'd known aliens – and humans – with some truly repugnant eating habits. But the thought of someone drinking blood from living creatures turned his stomach for some reason. _Then could I drink hot blood._ That line from _Hamlet_ always made him queasy.

The sound of the blast door rolling open made him turn quickly in his seat, pulse and breathing speeding up a bit. Reading account after account of meetings with vampires, some of them nauseatingly graphic, had made him a bit jittery. None of his team was supposed to be back at the Hub for at least another four hours, so he either had an unannounced and possibly unwelcome visitor, or one of his team was in for a dressing down.

He grabbed his revolver out of the desk drawer, turned off his desk lights and went out and across the workspace outside of his office as quickly and quietly as he could. As he crouched down behind the balcony stairs at the far end of the platform, he saw a figure that was at least human-shaped standing at the top of the steps leading down from the blast door. Jack couldn't make out much detail because of the low level of light in the Hub and the brighter backlight coming in from the entrance tunnel.

He cocked his gun as he aimed it at his visitor's head – the head did the trick for most aliens – and said quietly but clearly, "Hold it right there."

The figure turned towards him, the red light next to the storage area entrance illuminating the face just enough for him to realize who it was. "Doctor?" Jack hadn't expected to see him again so soon. It had only been a couple of months. But then it might've been much longer for the Doctor.

"Last time I checked," the Doctor said dryly, then pointed at Jack's gun. "You can put that away now."

"Oh." He'd forgotten he was still aiming it at the Doctor. He carefully released the hammer as he stood up and reached behind his back to tuck the gun into the waistband of his trousers. "What are you doing here?" He winced at the impatience in his own voice. Well, that was what happened when someone traipsed right through his supposedly secure front door, especially when he wasn't expecting anyone. Tended to make him just a bit jumpy.

"Oh, I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd pop in for a visit." The Doctor welcomed himself into the Hub, both the barred and blast doors automatically closing behind him as he hopped down the handful of stairs. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, hitching his long coat behind his elbows, and walked away from Jack, across the grating over the waterfall's drainage ditch.

"Yeah, right," Jack replied, one side of his mouth twitching upwards as he also descended to the main level. The Doctor had stopped walking and was looking around and up at the Hub's interior. "You don't do popping round to visit. Not that you're not always welcome, but why are you really here?"

"Jack…" The Doctor looked back towards him, a wounded look on his face. "Do you honestly believe there has to be some kind of trouble for me to stop by to see an old friend?"

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes," he said, equal measures of humor and seriousness mixed in his tone.

The Doctor glared back at him for a moment, then raised his hands in surrender. "All right, then. Fine, you're right." He tugged at his ear. "I sort of need a … favor. Well, a loan. Well, not really a loan because I probably won't give it back. Is it rude to ask for a gift?"

Jack raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Yeah, it _is_ generally considered rude on this planet to ask for a gift, but I'll make allowances since you're not from this planet. What is it you need?"

"Well…" A scuff of the foot, a shrug of one shoulder. "The TARDIS is sort of … misbehaving at the moment."

"Misbehaving?" Jack smiled at the Doctor's reluctance to admit that yes, his ramshackle old time machine was yet again on the fritz. "She's being naughty? Maybe she needs a good spanking."

"Jack," the Doctor drawled, annoyance evident in his voice. That really put a smile on Jack's face. Oh, how he loved to goad the Doctor. He'd love to kiss him, too, but was fairly certain he'd get little more than a disapproving stare and possibly a raised eyebrow in response. Not much appeal or satisfaction in that.

The Doctor gave Jack a beleaguered look, then shifted his weight from one foot to another and went on. "She's just sort of … being a bit inaccurate with landing coordinates at the moment. I would've preferred going somewhere more technologically advanced, but she knows this place and time well, and she was a bit low on fuel, so it was a moth to the candle flame, right to the Rift. You've got a fairly good assortment of alien bits and bobs here, so I thought maybe you might have something or other rattling around that I could use to repair her."

"Bits and bobs? I should be insulted. We've got some very useful stuff here, as you well know. Don't suppose you brought that cube thing back with you?"

"Cube thing?" the Doctor asked, his face wrinkled in confusion. Uh-oh. Maybe it had simply been a long time for the Doctor, but it was also possible that incident hadn't happened for him yet. This Doctor could be from before the Crucible.

Jack was beginning to worry about paradoxes and how they could be created with a single misplaced word when the Doctor finally said, "Oh, that!" He gave a shamefaced grin. "I'm not quite sure where I put that. I'll have a look for it later."

"And you accuse us of being disorganized?" Jack exclaimed with a pointed stare, but with an inward sigh of relief. At least now he knew the Doctor's visits were sequential from his own perspective. "I'll have you know, we've cleaned up our act on that count since the last time you were here. Everything's secured, nice and proper. We even have a swank new server for our tracking database. Very cutting edge stuff." _About the only good that came out of that sorry excuse of a computer specialist I hired_ , he added to himself. That one had lasted all of two weeks. A fleeting thought crossed his mind that maybe he was being too critical. There'd never be another Tosh.

"Ooo, shiny new toys. Can I look?" The Doctor was rubbing his hands together with a look of childish glee on his face. Jack refrained from making a rude comment about shiny new toys, but only just. At the moment he was simply pleased to see the Doctor in much better spirits than he had been during his last visit. He wondered how long it had actually been for him.

"Sure," Jack replied. "Probably be easier for you to look through the database for what you need rather than rummage around in storage. That still needs … a bit of sorting out."

The Doctor snorted but didn't say anything else as he followed Jack up the stairs and over to his office. He knew it was too much to hope the Doctor's silence was because he was busy admiring the view in front of him. He didn't know why he persisted in thinking things like that. It was never going to happen. For any number of reasons, including the fact that he was Wrong as far as the Doctor was concerned. The conversation they'd had on Utopia still stung.

At least the Doctor seemed to have learned since then to cope with the primal urge to run away from him. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. The last time he'd seen the Doctor, he'd attributed the dark mood and abrupt demeanor to his recent loss of Donna, but maybe Jack had been too willing to believe that. He couldn't help but have noticed when the Doctor had entered the Hub this time, he'd deliberately walked in the opposite direction instead of stepping towards him for some kind of greeting.

Jack flipped the desk lights back on, dropped his gun into the drawer, and turned toward the computer desk against the opposite wall. He'd intended to close the various pages holding his vampire research, but the Doctor was already seated there. "Oooh, vampires," he said with apparent delight as he took out his glasses and put them on before beginning to merrily click around the screen.

Jack squinted and pinched the bridge of his nose. Just glancing at the computer screen again was giving him a headache. He moved to the end of his main desk and propped himself against the edge, his hands braced on the desktop behind him. He might've been imagining it, but he thought he saw the Doctor's shoulders tense a bit as soon as he moved that small distance closer. He briefly gritted his teeth, blew out a breath and said with exasperation, "We've been having a bit of a problem with them recently."

"With vampires? Really?" The Doctor swiveled the chair a bit and looked over his shoulder, peering steadily at Jack over the top of his glasses. "Vampiric species are rare in this part of the galaxy. Then again, you do get all sorts dropping out of that Rift of yours."

"Yeah, I did sort of notice that," Jack said sarcastically.

The Doctor finished turning the chair away from the computer and towards Jack. He rubbed uncomfortably at the side of his own neck. "I met a vampire once. Well, a Plasmavore. One of the humanoid vampiric species. Only she didn't have fangs. She had a straw."

"A straw." That was a mental image that just didn't compute. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not," the Doctor said with a shudder. "Wouldn't joke about something like that. It was a very pointy straw." He tilted his head and winced. "She would've had fangs when she was younger, but they often wear down or fall out with age. This one was on the oldish side. More of a grandmother type." Jack frowned at the thought of a grandmotherly vampire. That one sort of computed, but it was a very strange image.

"It was here on Earth, actually," the Doctor went on, looking up at the ceiling and absently massaging his neck. "Well, we were sort of involuntarily relocated to the Moon. Along with an entire hospital. Which had a very nice little shop by the way."

A corner of Jack's mouth quirked up at the Doctor's tendency to notice the strangest details. "The Royal Hope incident," he said knowingly. "I thought you might've been involved in that one. We couldn't track down very many details, apart from some raving about talking rhinos in body armor. Judoon, I assume?"

The Doctor had turned back to the computer and was switching screens and scrolling through them so quickly it was making Jack dizzy. "Yep, H2O scooping away," he replied, but then he paused on one page and sat up straighter. "What?! Oh, that's just ridiculous. Amazing what people will dream up to explain something they don't understand." He slouched down a bit and went back to his info feeding frenzy. "I don't suppose you would've found very many details since there were only a handful who knew what really happened. The Judoon. The Plasmavore. Me. Oh, and Martha of course."

"Martha?" That surprised Jack. He hadn't realized Martha had been there. He should have put two and two together since he knew she'd done some of her medical training at the Royal Hope, but he hadn't known she'd been on duty at that particular time.

"That's where we met," the Doctor explained. "With the Judoon platoon upon the Moon. She's never mentioned it?"

"No she hasn't, but you're not the only thing we talk about, you know," he said with a touch of annoyance. The Doctor made a humming sound, but was apparently too involved in the rapidly changing series of pages he'd brought up on the monitor to comment any further.

Really, Jack didn't know much at all about what had gone on when Martha had been travelling with the Doctor. Discussing the Doctor was a sort of no-man's-land between them. He wasn't quite sure why. Probably because of the Year. Sometimes it seemed that Year tainted every memory he had of the Doctor. It might well be the same for her.

The wildly flashing images on the computer screen were now starting to make Jack nauseous. He shifted over to the wall next to the computer desk, leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. Now he could see the side of the Doctor's face but not the monitor. Much better. Or not. The Doctor seemed to be sitting a bit more stiffly now, and Jack was sure he saw him glance quickly out of the corner of his eye, as if keeping tabs on how close the Wrong was. Jack knocked the back of his head lightly against the wall and closed his eyes.

So much for the Doctor not finding it unsettling to be around him. He couldn't delude himself. A twitchy reaction or two he could ignore as coincidence, but it was obvious to him now that his proximity to the Doctor was causing him discomfort. The realization brought with it a heavy sadness, and he allowed himself a moment of pained regret before gathering his composure and opening his eyes. Nothing he could do about it but try to maintain his distance as much as possible.

He jerked away from the wall and walked quickly to the door of his office, then stopped and propped himself against the doorframe. He didn't particularly care how the Doctor interpreted his shift in position. He was probably oblivious. Or maybe keenly aware. Jack didn't waste any effort on trying to figure it out. He had more pressing matters to attend to. "Is it possible one of our vampires is the same one you ran into?" he asked,

"No. Definitely not," the Doctor said as he swiveled the chair and leaned back, folded his arms over his chest and crossed his legs at the ankle. Apparently Jack was now a sufficient distance away for him to relax. _There. Problem solved. Move on._

"She was executed," the Doctor explained. "She was being hunted by the Judoon when I ran into her, and they … took care of the matter." He paused, his eyes becoming unfocused for a moment, then he sucked in a deep breath and took his glasses off. "You may not even be dealing with Plasmavores. What have they been feeding on?"

Jack blinked several times in confusion before he realized he hadn't given the Doctor any of the details yet. There must be vampires who preyed on animals or who perhaps didn't kill when they fed. Human mythology mostly focused on the more horrific facets of vampirism. He hadn't really considered other options, mainly because they weren't relevant in this case.

His hesitation was apparently enough for the Doctor to supply himself with the answer to his own question, though. "Oh. Oh, no. They've been feeding on humans, haven't they?" Jack nodded. "Killing them?" Jack nodded again. The Doctor paused, then asked quietly, a mixed expression of sorrow and grim determination on his face, "How many?"

"Six so far." There would be more. He'd be a fool if he tried to convince himself otherwise.

"Has anyone actually seen them? Apart from the victims, obviously."

"Yes, but nothing more than shadowy figures, running away. The only other evidence we have beside the bodies is the messages they've been leaving: 'We will find him,' written on the nearest available surface in the victims' own blood." The gory memories stirred up anger and disgust and burned his guts with acid.

"Oh," the Doctor said, his lip curling in distaste. "That's rather … barbaric."

"Just a bit." As if committing murder to satisfy their appetites wasn't horrific enough, they'd had to add that sadistic flourish.

"Any idea who they might be referring to?"

"Not a clue. They're obviously trying to bait whoever they're looking for, but beyond that, we don't have much to go on." Frustration was taking over now. He'd have to keep a careful rein on that. Could be volatile when indiscriminately mixed with anger. "The victims don't have anything in common as far as we can tell. They might just be … collateral damage." He hated referring to people that way, but he couldn't think of any better way to describe it. He didn't want to use any term related to food, even though he had already admitted to himself that it was true. They hadn't just killed and left the bodies otherwise untouched, after all.

The Doctor leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his fingers knitted together and his forehead wrinkled in thought, then he abruptly stood up and said, "So where have you stashed the bodies? May as well see if I can find anything you overlooked."

Jack nodded as he pushed himself away from the doorframe and led the way out of the office. Although he didn't like the thought that his team might've missed something, he'd take whatever help he could get. Maybe the Doctor would be able to get something more useful from his examination of the victims than feelings of guilt for not having stopped the vampires yet.

* * *

As the Doctor followed Jack down to the morgue, he breathed slowly and deeply and tried to shake the tension out of his limbs. He'd forgotten how disturbing it was for him to be around Jack, but he was adjusting now. He'd handled it before, the queasy feeling simmering just beneath the surface, bubbling up from time to time. It'd just about choked him earlier, but he'd been distracted by sifting through Jack's vampire research and had been caught off guard. It was obvious Jack had noticed his reaction, but he couldn't take it back, or even apologize for it, not really. It had been completely involuntary. The best he could do was to try and control his reflexive aversion as much as he could, even while accepting that it wouldn't always be possible. He hoped Jack understood that in some way.

As they arrived at the morgue, the Doctor glanced around at the three walls lined with rows of small doors, each presumably containing a body or ready to contain a body. He briefly wondered where the rest were stored because he was certain there'd have to be a great deal more bodies wherever Torchwood was involved, even Jack's Torchwood. Right now, though, he needed to focus his attention on this plague of vampires. He already had an unpleasant theory as to what they were doing on Earth.

He followed Jack over to the wall directly across from the entranceway and watched as he quickly pulled one of the doors open, then slid out a long drawer holding a sheet-shrouded body. Jack reverently folded the sheet down from the person's face and brushed a stray bit of hair off the forehead of a young woman who couldn't be more than mid-twenties. Jack's expression was one of quiet grief. The Doctor wondered if his sorrow was caused by the woman's tender age or if he somehow felt responsible for her early demise. He could certainly understand that kind of self-recrimination, born out of failure to save someone. He supposed it was even possible that Jack coveted her death. What must that be like, to know the one certainty in every living being's existence was no longer a part of him?

"This was the first one," Jack said quietly, still gazing down at the woman with lingering sadness in his eyes. The life that was so persistently cheap in him surely must make the lives of others so much more precious and dear to him. Even though the Doctor wasn't immortal, his own long lives made the sentiment understandable to him.

"How long has this been going on?" he asked as he moved to the other side of the body and looked down at the woman's pale face. For some reason she looked familiar, but with the number of humans he'd encountered in his life, it was inevitable some of them would appear at least superficially the same.

Jack drew his hands back and stood up straight, his voice now clear and toneless. Back to business. "One victim every day for six days. Nothing in the past day and a half, but that may just be because they're being cautious. We had an intensive search going on before you got here."

The Doctor could feel the icy nothingness of death radiating from the body, but it was mingled with the aura of not-death surrounding Jack. To distract himself from the unsettling mix of sensations, he pulled out his glasses and put them back on. Not that he really wanted to get a clearer view of what had been done to the poor woman, but needs must.

Shifting himself into analytical mode, he quickly evaluated the spectral properties of the hue of her skin, then carefully turned her head to the side and found the expected pair of puncture wounds with a bit of bruising from the peripheral teeth. "Almost certainly a Plasmavore bite." Confirming the attacker's species was one point in favor of his theory.

He glanced up to see Jack frowning hard, his eyebrows drawn together. "How can you tell?" he asked, his voice somewhat peremptory. Probably irritated his team had apparently missed an important clue.

"There's a faint but distinctive greenish tint in the color of her skin, difficult to detect under the grey-blue present when a human bleeds to death. Not the sort of thing you'd normally look for in an autopsy." That seemed to mollify Jack somewhat. "The discoloration is caused by a soporific Plasmavores inject into their victims with their fangs to make them more submissive."

He'd half-wished the one on the Moon had still had that ability. It had been a challenge to keep his panic under control, knowing full well she might consume every last drop of his blood before the Judoon got there. He'd stopped one heart before she'd started drinking his blood so she wouldn't detect a doubled set of pulses and realize he wasn't human as she'd assumed him to be. But if she'd been able to sedate him, he wouldn't have been able to gradually slow the other heart and reduce his blood pressure to make it more difficult for her to drain his blood. She'd gotten a fair amount of it nevertheless, enough that it had been somewhat painful when Martha had revived him and his body had rapidly replenished the lost blood.

"Okay. At least we know what we're dealing with now," Jack said, his tone slightly relieved but then shifting to sarcasm liberally laced with anger as he added, "So assuming we manage to catch them, how do we deal with them? Toss them out in the sunlight? Arm ourselves with silver bullets and wooden stakes?"

"If you wanted to kill them, bullets and stakes would certainly work, just as they would for a great many living things," he replied with a bit of annoyance. He could understand Jack's frustration, but why did humans always have to be so quick to resort to guns and violence, so determined that bloodshed should be met with more of the same? "As for sunlight, they _are_ nocturnal, but all broad daylight would do to them would be to make them a bit tetchy and probably give them a headache. They're not supernatural creatures. They just happen to subsist on blood."

"Yeah, and that's no big deal at all, apart from the fact that it's revolting."

The Doctor started to say something about blood being very nutritious, lots of iron and electrolytes and proteins, but then thought better of it. Jack obviously had his prejudices on the subject, and he had to admit they were warranted in this case since the consumption of blood had been a method to murder other sentient beings.

Forgoing further commentary for the moment, he turned his attention back to the victim and matched his fingers to a dark set of bruises on her shoulder, probably caused by the Plasmavore holding her still for long enough to bite and inject the soporific. He also noted the woman's neck on this side was unscathed by fangs, but the skin was not entirely unmarked. There was a small tattoo of a Celtic knot there. "Oh," he said, pulling away a bit, memories shifting until they formed a clear picture. He'd only seen her fleetingly and out of his peripheral vision, but he did know this woman.

"Oh, what?" Jack asked, leaning forwards to check what the Doctor had been looking at.

"This woman was at the Royal Hope. I remember seeing her in the hall." He spoke quietly, the memory now clear in his mind as he slowly turned the woman's head back to its original position. "Slumped against the wall, one step away from asphyxiation."

"Really? That's an interesting coincidence," Jack said slowly, his thoughts obviously churning.

After a pause during which dread began to settle in his stomach, the Doctor said with a catch in his voice, "Let me see the other victims."

Jack eyed him with what appeared to be concern, but nevertheless did as requested. One by one he pulled the drawers out of the wall and folded the sheets down with care, and one by one the horrible feeling in the Doctor's gut grew. He had to dredge for some of the memories, but the last one was so sharp that it nearly made him gasp. A dark-haired woman in a doctor's coat, crouching and wailing in abject fear. _Not her. She'd hold us up._ He'd dismissed her, and now here she was, dead. She'd escaped the chaos surrounding the misdeeds of one Plasmavore, only to be caught up in what was evidently the delayed aftermath. _We will find him._ He had a sickening feeling he knew who they were looking for.

"Doctor? What is it?" Jack asked softly, tentatively.

The Doctor drew a sharp breath and took a single step back from the final victim. He couldn't allow himself more than that, for the moment at least. He briefly considered telling Jack it was nothing, but Jack likely wouldn't leave it alone. He'd know something was going on that he wasn't being told about.

The Doctor kept his eyes averted from Jack, though, as he said, "The connection among your victims is that they were all at the Royal Hope on the day the Judoon hijacked it to the Moon."

Jack was silent a moment, evidently putting the pieces together. "So this is some kind of revenge for the Plasmavore the Judoon killed?"

"Not exactly." A cold, heavy weight of certainty was settling on the Doctor now. Again, he considered leaving Jack in the dark, but something drove him to continue, almost as if he needed to make a confession of sorts. "I think you're right that the deaths of this woman and the other five victims were a means to send a message to the one they really want. _We will find him._ " He did look up now, to traces of confusion still apparent on Jack's face.

"But they wouldn't be looking for a Judoon on Earth," Jack said with a frown. "So who _are_ they looking for?"

"Me." There. He'd said it. He was the one to blame. It was his fault these people were dead. At least now that he knew what was happening, there'd be no more innocent people dying. He'd see to that.

"You?" Jack said, his expression still puzzled. "But you didn't have anything to do with the first Plasmavore's death. She was trying to kill _you_ , wasn't she?"

The Doctor didn't answer immediately and instead busied himself drawing the sheet back up over the young physician and sliding the drawer back into the wall. He didn't need to look at her face any longer. It would be quite some time before it faded back into his memory, probably to be replaced by others whose deaths would be on his hands.

As he latched the chamber door, he saw that Jack was likewise returning another of the victims to uncertain repose. They continued in silence until all of the bodies were hidden from view once again. The Doctor didn't ask what would ultimately become of them. He assumed Jack would treat them with dignity.

That task accomplished, Jack returned to his previous line of thought. He'd obviously reached a conclusion. "You _did_ have something to do with it," he said emphatically. He didn't sound especially surprised. But then why should he be? Where the Doctor went, death followed. There were so many he'd betrayed, so many he'd fought, so many he'd sacrificed, so many times he'd been careless or driven or desperate or cruel, asked more than he should have, expected too much, gone too far or not far enough, acted too soon or too late, hadn't listened to reason, been so sure he'd been right and been so horribly wrong.

The Doctor thrust his hands into his trouser pockets as he returned his attention to Jack. He had to work a bit to keep his voice steady and his face relatively blank. Emotional responses would only be a hindrance and distraction to him right now. "She'd been consuming human blood to mask her biological signature and hide from the Judoon. My blood allowed the Judoon to scan her as an alien."

"There's some serendipity for you," Jack said, then tilted his head to the side and peered intently at him. "Oh, wait. It wasn't luck. You _let_ her drink your blood. You knew what would happen."

He shrugged.

"You're insane."

"So I've been told, more than once."

At that moment, Jack's mobile rang. He jerked it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear, anger flaring fiercely on his face as he listened. "Damn it. We'll be right there. Don't let anyone else anywhere near the body." He stabbed at a button on the phone and gave the Doctor a grim look. There was no need for him to explain. It was obvious what had happened. The Doctor felt one of his hands involuntarily clench into a fist. He forced himself to relax it and wiggled his fingers to release the tension.

As they headed back to the Hub, Jack made a call on his mobile and instructed someone on the other end of the line to collect the rest of the team and bring them to meet him at the location of the body. That bit of business seen to, he glanced over at the Doctor and asked, "I don't suppose you have any idea exactly how many Plasmavores we're dealing with here? Might be useful to know."

The Doctor really didn't want to talk about it any more – he'd moved beyond thinking and into resolute action – but Jack might need that information if anything went wrong and he was left to clean up the mess. "Most likely six," he said tersely.

"Six bodies, six Plasmavores? Can't be that simple."

The Doctor suppressed a frustrated sigh. Normally, he'd be more than willing to witter away on just about any topic presented to him, but not when he was determinedly focused on handling a situation where lives were on the line. If he refused to explain his reasoning to Jack, though, Jack would think he was holding something back and would continue to pester him with questions.

"Plasmavores are born as identical sextuplets," he said in a voice almost devoid of inflection. This was a simple transfer of information, not an effusive sharing of something amazing and wondrous. "Sort of a vestigial litter breeding trait. They usually hunt together and either kill six times in one hunt or feed individually over six separate hunts." He left out the fact that in cases of revenge, all six would feed on one victim simultaneously. Jack didn't need to know that.

"But the one on the Moon was alone, wasn't she?" Jack asked.

"Yes. I think she'd been alone for a while, or at least the Judoon were tracking only her. She might've been the last survivor of her group of sisters. Or had gone off on her own for some reason. Doesn't really matter." And it didn't. In the end, it came down to one thing – they had to be stopped.

Jack was being damnably persistent in his questioning, though. "So could we be dealing with surviving sisters?"

"Doubt it," the Doctor replied tightly, but he added a bit of an explanation to hopefully forestall further speculation on Jack's part. "Any remaining siblings would be too advanced in years to stage a hunt this effective. And the six deaths indicate a complete group of siblings."

The Doctor wasn't sure if Jack was finally satisfied with the information he'd been given or if he was mulling it over ahead of more questions, but at least the rest of the trip back to the Hub was completed in silence. That gave the Doctor a few moments to sort through anything else that might be important to his objective of finding and stopping the Plasmavores before they killed anyone else.

They'd likely begun with the Judoon who'd been involved. They would've been the first and most obvious source of information. That would mean access to the images and scans of him they'd made when they'd thought he was their target and was lying insensate and apparently dead on the floor of the hospital. That was the usual Judoon method of proving their objective had been met so they could collect their compensation. Instead of abandoning their search, though, evidently the Plasmavores had persisted for some reason and had learned he was still very much alive. They'd know him when they saw him, thanks to the Judoon. He was counting on it, in fact. Then they'd have their prey in sight and would have no more need to lure him in with a trail of blameless lives destroyed.

He was deeply disturbed by the fact that if the TARDIS hadn't malfunctioned and needed refueling, this might have gone on for far longer. Then again, her instincts were often inexplicably exact in bringing him to places and times where he needed to be. Maybe she'd been guided by more than her need for fuel.

By the time they arrived back in the main Hub area, another thought had occurred to him. He followed Jack up onto the platform outside of his office, and while Jack went in to collect his gear, he seated himself at the workstation nearest the stairs. He took out his sonic screwdriver, ran it over the machine and typed a bit on the keyboard.

Jack reemerged from his office a moment later, swinging his coat around his shoulders and sliding his arms into the sleeves as he went. The Doctor caught a glimpse of Jack's gun at his side in a shoulder holster, but he refrained from making any comments about weapons. Jack had his own methods, and there was no point in arguing with him unless your purpose was to make yourself hoarse.

"What are you doing?" Jack asked as he gave a final tug to the lapels of his coat.

"I've added an entry for the Shadow Proclamation to your IM contacts list," he said as he put the sonic away and turned from the workstation. "They respond to text messages relatively quickly provided you keep them brief and to the point."

"I can _IM_ the Shadow Proclamation?" Jack asked with a frown and a raised eyebrow.

"Yep. You can now."

"What's the use of that?" he asked suspiciously. "The Shadow Proclamation has no jurisdiction on Earth, which is how I like it, by the way."

"A situation like Plasmavores feeding on humans to the point of death falls under the Protection of Sentient Species Act," he replied as he stood up and headed back down the stairs and towards the exit, Jack following a step behind. "It supersedes the nonintervention clause of the Proclamation."

"Okay, thanks for the galactic civics lesson," Jack retorted, "but I'd still rather leave the Proclamation out of this altogether. If the Judoon get involved, there's likely to be a mess."

"Oh, I think we can manage to find the Plasmavores quite handily without the Judoon's dubious assistance," he replied as he pressed the button to open the doors.

"Wait a minute," Jack said sharply as he positioned himself between the Doctor and the doors. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the rumbling of their opening. "What's this 'we'? You're not going with me."

"Of course I'm going with you," the Doctor said firmly. Perhaps he shouldn't have told Jack who the Plasmavores were looking for, but he hadn't been able to resist at the time, desperately needing some sort of an outlet for his guilt. "You know better than to try and stop me, Jack," he added with a bit of a glare.

Jack looked as if he were going to do just that, his body tensing and his eyes narrowing, but then he sighed deeply and briefly looked up towards the ceiling. The doors were open now, the Hub falling quiet again. "All right. Fine, "Jack said, obviously exasperated. He raised a finger and fixed the Doctor with a steely expression, though. "But no wandering off. I want you to stick by my side the whole time."

"Jack," the Doctor said with his own sigh and shake of the head. "When have I ever done that, not if I needed to be somewhere else?"

"Damn it, Doctor." Jack pressed his lips together and seemed about to make another protest.

"Don't, Jack. Let's just take care of this, and then I'll be off again, safe and sound." He had a feeling it wasn't going to be that simple, but he'd found humans were strangely susceptible to vague reassurances. Or at least they liked to pretend to believe.

Jack didn't look as if he were convinced, but he seemed to have decided to keep any further arguments to himself. He did look more than a bit angry, though. Frustrated perhaps. Probably both. "Let's go," he said tightly, turning quickly and heading up the stairs and into the exit passage without a backward glance.


	2. Victims

Chapter 2 – "Victims"

Jack was almost glad it was a considerable distance to the location of the Plasmavores' latest victim since it allowed him a bit of time to gather his thoughts and rein in his emotions. The time spent in driving, though, meant that much more time for the Plasmavores to get away and cover their tracks.

As much as he wanted to find them and stop them as soon as possible, though, he almost wished they would escape for the time being, at least now that he knew who they were looking for. He really wasn't happy about the Doctor's insistence on coming along, but he'd been right – there was little Jack could do to stop him. Better to keep him close at hand as much as possible until this situation was resolved.

The Doctor didn't speak the entire time, and Jack didn't take his eyes from the road to spare a glance at him. Either he was lost in thought, dealing with his own demons, or was respecting Jack's silence. Or pressing himself against the door and fighting the urge to jump out of a moving vehicle to get away from the Wrong.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts. He needed to stop dwelling on this whole Wrongness … thing. Issue. Whatever. It was what it was. Nothing he could do about it. But he damn well was going to do something about the Plasmavores, preferably something just as deadly as they'd done to their victims.

As they arrived at their destination, he stomped on the brake pedal, bringing the SUV to a screeching halt at the police cordon. He jerked the gearshift to park and reached to open the door, but the Doctor forestalled him. "One other thing."

Jack turned back and snapped impatiently, "What _is_ it, Doctor?"

"This is important, Jack," the Doctor said softly. Jack took a deep breath and nodded sharply, itching to get out of the SUV and start his search for the Plasmavores, but knowing that when the Doctor spoke in earnest like that, it usually was something that deserved attention.

"Once we capture the Plasmavores," the Doctor continued, "they should be turned over to the Proclamation."

 _This_ was what the Doctor wanted to tell him? "And what'll the Proclamation do to them that I couldn't just as easily do myself?" Jack retorted with a note of challenge in his voice. The Doctor seemed so certain it was an inevitability that the Plasmavores would be apprehended as opposed to something else more quick and clean and final.

The Doctor laid a firm hand on Jack's shoulder and said slowly and steadily, "Jack, don't think to appoint yourself judge, jury and executioner. You don't want to go down that path."

"Who's to say I haven't gone there already?" His impatience was salting his words. They needed to _go_. Why were they even having this conversation?

The Doctor was being persistent, though, so Jack gave him a moment longer to make his point. "Don't do it this time. It's not worth it. I doubt the Plasmavores will deny what they've done. There won't even be a trial or any doubt as to the sentence. They'll be executed. Let the Proclamation handle it. It'll send a message to any others who might be considering doing anything similar."

Jack held his gaze a moment longer, then looked away. "Fine. But don't think for a minute I'm going to put much effort into taking them alive."

"I don't expect you to," the Doctor answered quietly.

That matter settled, Jack jerked the door open, jumped out of the SUV and slammed the door behind him. He didn't bother to see if the Doctor was following him. The Doctor would do what the Doctor wanted to do. No sense in trying to manage him.

He gave a sharp nod to the three policemen on the scene. "Torchwood," he said by way of terse introduction. "You can all clear out now." The constabulary had their uses, but there wasn't much they could do at the moment other than get in the way and ask annoying questions. Better they clear out for the time being. They could always be called back in later if needed.

Jack made to move past, but one of the policemen caught him by the arm and said, "Now wait just a minute here."

Jack turned his head to glare at the man. "Oh, so you'd like to stay around until the bloodsucking monster comes back? Maybe she's still hungry. You can ask her."

It obviously wasn't what the policeman was expecting to hear. He stopped short of saying something else, probably another protest, and gave Jack an uncertain look. Fortunately his partner took the opportunity to interrupt. "Come on, Simon," he said, and Jack was perversely satisfied to see that at least he looked worried. "No use wasting our time here. You know how these Torchwood folk are."

Simon glanced over at the other man, then looked back at Jack with a frustrated expression. He did let go of Jack's arm, though. "All right then," he said slowly, "but anything weird that happens here is on you and not us."

Jack didn't bother with a reply, just swept past in annoyance. Although Torchwood commanded a bit more respect after the Daleks and the theft of the Earth, there were still holdouts who challenged them whenever possible. There were even those who thought Torchwood had invited the trouble through their mucking about in alien matters. No sense worrying about any of that, though. He was here to do a job and couldn't waste time on small and blame-filled minds.

He yanked up the police tape stretched across the alleyway and ducked underneath. There was very little illumination, just a small bulkhead light next to a doorway at the end of the alley. He eyed the door warily as he drew his gun, then pulled out his torch and flicked it on, shining the beam over damp ground littered with discarded bottles, cans and crumpled newspapers, until he found the body – slim and tall and obviously male despite the slender build, battered trainers on the feet, faded jeans, a well-worn black leather jacket, short-cropped dark hair and a face turned away. For a moment Jack was struck by a thought that the man was a strange amalgamation of the two Doctors he'd known. He hoped it was only a passing similarity. Difficult to say with time travel and alternate universes in play.

He crept cautiously forward, eyes scanning the rest of the alley and finding nothing out of the ordinary. When he reached the body, he slowly knelt beside it, glancing down to see two puncture marks on the outstretched neck, just like the other unfortunate souls who had encountered the Plasmavores. He turned the head a bit to look at the face, just enough to verify he didn't recognize the person. Not that it helped to assuage his guilt or anger. Still, he blew out a slight breath of relief. Ridiculous to entertain even the vague notion that it was a future Doctor, really. He would've regenerated. Wouldn't he? Unless this _was_ the final regeneration.

Jack looked up quickly, his eyes skimming the surrounding area until he found it, scrawled in blood on the pavement just beyond the victim. _We will find him._ So the Plasmavores didn't think they'd found their target. That was all the confirmation he was likely to get. He firmly told himself he couldn't waste any more time worrying over vague what-ifs.

As he rose to his feet again, he heard the rev of an engine as another vehicle pulled up outside the alleyway, then slamming doors, muttered words, footsteps behind him. He turned to see Gwen and Ianto approaching, Dr. Inman lagging behind, but not out of fear or uncertainty. She was taking in everything around her with sharp eyes. Jack still wasn't convinced he'd made the right choice with her, but at least she was paying attention and not blundering about.

Gwen and Ianto stopped in front of him, while Inman slipped wordlessly by to examine the body. "Any sign of the vampires?" Gwen asked anxiously, her eyes wide, reflecting the amber light of the alley's lone light bulb.

"No," he answered. "But the Doctor and I just got here."

"The Doctor?" Ianto said with a bit of surprise in his voice. "He's here?"

"Yeah, he dropped by to pinch some spare parts and ended up getting interested in our vampire problem. Didn't you see him on the way in?"

"No," Gwen said slowly, questioning eyes flicking from Jack to Ianto. "Was he supposed to wait for us?"

A surge of fear made Jack's heart hammer, but he tried to dismiss it and responded with sarcasm. "Hah!" he snorted. "I wouldn't be able to make him stay put even if I shackled him with deadbolt restraints. Likely he's nosing around here somewhere. Hopefully he'll find something." _Please, let him just be having a look around. Maybe I should have shackled him to_ me _with deadbolt restraints._ That probably wouldn't have worked, though. The Doctor would've found some way to escape. Jack wondered if he would've resorted to something like severing his captor's arm, knowing it would regenerate after he bled out and resurrected.

At that moment, there was the snick of a lock turning and the squeak of a door swinging open. Jack whirled around and aimed his gun towards the sound, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Gwen and Ianto had drawn their weapons and were following his line of sight. The door at the end of the alleyway was opening. Jack began to slowly inch forwards, his gun tracking to cover whatever was coming through.

The door made a muffled thud against the back wall of the alley, and he squinted at the small blue light he saw shining in the open doorway. Then a familiar sound came to his ears. He let out a shaky breath and relaxed as the Doctor appeared, the light of the sonic screwdriver combined with that of the alley's light fixture throwing an odd mix of color and shadows across his face. Jack put his gun back in his holster and strode towards him.

"Find anything?" he asked softly, not wanting to distract the Doctor from the intense concentration evident on his face.

The Doctor shook the screwdriver, banged it against his palm a few times, then held it up again, blue light shining steadily and accompanied by a gentle whirring. "I thought I had something," he answered distractedly, "but it's gone now." He lowered the sonic, eyeing it balefully, then slid it into his inner jacket pocket and looked over at Jack.

A grin broke across the Doctor's face, momentarily confusing Jack. Then the Doctor strode around him, and as Jack turned to see where he was going, he understood. The Doctor was holding his hand out to Gwen, then Ianto, giving them both a hearty handshake. "Gwen Cooper! And Ianto Jones! Good to see you again."

Gwen smiled amiably at the Doctor while Ianto gave him a nod of acknowledgement and said seriously, "Good to see you again as well. And upright and speaking this time."

The Doctor looked chagrined at the reminder of their last encounter, but whatever he might've said was lost in the sound of a high-pitched shriek. Jack's eyes darted all around, his gun once again ready in his hand.

"There!" Gwen shouted, pointing upwards. A face was peering down over the edge of the roof, that of a dark-haired woman who appeared human but for the long fangs glinting in her open mouth.

"That must be one of our vampires," Ianto stated calmly.

Jack gave him an unamused look, then jerked his head towards the end of the alley as he said, "You take the door. Gwen, out of the alley and go right around the perimeter. I'll go left. Be careful. The others might be close by. Could be as many as six of them." Ianto raised an eyebrow at this new bit of information, but gave a sharp nod and headed towards the door while Gwen turned back towards the street.

Inman had risen to her feet and had her hand inside her jacket, presumably reaching for her sidearm, but Jack shook his head. She'd learned to handle a gun fairly well under Gwen's tutelage, but at the moment, he wasn't willing to trust her to use a weapon for anything more than self-defense. "Stay here and get the body ready for transport back to the Hub. Doctor…" He turned in a full circle looking for the Doctor, but he was already gone. Jack suppressed the urge to yell in frustration and instead grimaced and followed after Gwen.

* * *

The Doctor hadn't wasted time looking up to visually locate the Plasmavore before he'd started moving. The scream had given his ears all the input he'd needed to determine it was likely female and to ascertain where she was at that moment – up and to the left, at a distance that indicated the roof of the building.

His feet carried him back through the door directly to the stairway he'd found earlier, and he rapidly bounded up the two flights of stairs to emerge onto the roof just in time to hear Jack issue the last of his orders to his team. A frown skittered over his face as he imagined Jack's reaction at finding him already gone. Teeth-grinding anger came to mind. He had told Jack, though, that he'd do whatever was necessary to apprehend the Plasmavores. That didn't necessarily equate to sticking by Jack's side.

There was no sign of anyone or anything on the roof, other than dust and grime. He didn't waste any time looking over the side of the building. It was too far a drop for most humanoids, including Plasmavores, to make without doing themselves quite a bit of harm. That kind of injury would doubtless either render her immobile or slow her down enough to make her an easy catch for Jack and his team. More than likely she was back in the building, checking for another exit or looking for an opportunity to slip past and rejoin the other members of her hunting group. She must've been waiting to see if he'd make an appearance, and it seemed she had indeed recognized him. The tone of her cry was unsettlingly similar to that of hounds baying as they scented their prey.

He plunged back into the darkness of the building, but stopped short as he heard footsteps on the floor below him. The sound allowed him to compute the likely weight of whoever it was, and that told him it was probably Ianto. Plasmavores were virtually silent on foot. Not so for prim and proper Welshmen.

He quickly descended the stairs and called Ianto's name softly. Ianto whirled, his torch streaking light across the room. The Doctor held up one hand to block the light and held his other hand out to forestall Ianto from doing anything ill-considered with his gun. "It's just me, the Doctor." Ianto lowered his weapon immediately and apologized.

"Never mind that. She's not on the roof, but she might still be in the building somewhere. I'm going back outside to see if she managed to get out already."

Ianto nodded quickly and resumed his search. The Doctor jogged back out into the alley, holding out a reassuring hand to the person he assumed was the team's medic or doctor or coroner – something medical or scientific in any event. She was already zipping up a body bag over the Plasmavore's victim. She would've needed to go to one of the SUVs to get the body bag, so if the Plasmavore had come this way, she must've gotten away in the few moments when no one had been in the alley. No one alive at least.

He stepped cautiously out into the street. The buildings along either side were rather rundown and mostly seemed to contain small industrial businesses, so the area was accordingly deserted this late at night. He pulled his sonic out for another scan and grinned when it seemed willing to cooperate this time. He immediately caught a positive reading of something decidedly not indigenous to Earth. The signal was rapidly fading, though. No time to go back for Jack or his team. He'd lose the trail entirely, and he doubted they'd find her or any of the others again until there was another dead body to collect.

He set quickly off down the street, gratified to see the lock on the Plasmavore's biological signature becoming stronger with each passing street, but there was still only a single lifeform registering. He quickened his pace, eyes flicking from side to side, up and down, until he arrived at another alleyway, this one open at the far end. There was a dark figure moving fast along its length towards the street beyond. He turned and pursued it, simultaneously flipping through the settings on the sonic in search of something that would incapacitate a Plasmavore. Just as he'd found what he needed, though, his arms were abruptly wrenched backwards, fingers digging into his left wrist and forcing his hand open.

The sonic clattered to the ground as his coat and suit jacket were yanked together from his shoulders. He was thrown off balance and barely managed to regain his footing before fiercely clutching hands and searing pain in multiple spots along his arms and legs forestalled any further movement on his part. The attack was so sudden that his breath caught in his throat, preventing him from making any sound other than a choked gasp.

Something was piercing his flesh right through his clothing, sending fire through his veins. Fangs. Several sets of them. His sonic must not have been able to separate multiple identical biological signatures in close proximity. Or had malfunctioned at the worst possible time. Or they'd somehow blocked the signal. Too late now. Vertigo swept through him, the initial effect of the soporific entering his bloodstream. He felt his head tipping to the side and then rolling back, leaving him staring up at the night sky, the stars seeming to flare brighter even as they wavered. If not for the strong grip of multiple hands on his limbs holding him upright, he was certain he would've crumpled to the ground.

The dizziness began to recede slightly as his system made an attempt at processing some of the multiple doses of the Plasmavores' sedative. He found that despite most of his strength having deserted him, he had become preternaturally aware of the position of his body in space and its current condition. He realized any attempt to escape would result in horrendous lacerations. Two of the bites were too close to arteries to risk that. He'd be dead in a handful of double heartbeats.

He managed to pull his head upright again and hazarded a glance down at himself. He immediately wished he hadn't looked. He already knew where they were and what damage they were inflicting, could feel that their retractable fangs had been extended to what was probably their limit, but a morbidly instinctive part of him wanted the visual confirmation.

There were five of them and from what he could see they were indeed identical, each of them dressed entirely in black, all with long, dark hair pulled smoothly back from their faces and bound at the napes of their necks. In the dim light, bodies and hair seemed to recede into the background, and their pale faces stood out as if carved in relief, sharp angles and elongated lines softened only slightly by the smooth perfection of alabaster skin.

One had sunk her fangs into his right bicep around the brachial artery, another was tightly gripping his lower left arm with her fingers while her fangs pierced the space between the arm bones, the third had her jaws clamped with crushing force around his right hipbone, and the fourth was stabbing into his right calf with fangs that were scraping along the inside of his fibula. Those four were intent on their points of attack and weren't looking at him, although they were strangely motionless, seemingly satisfied for the moment with keeping him immobile. The fifth one, though, her fangs digging deep into his left thigh perilously close to the femoral artery, was looking up at him with an intensely hostile and hungry gleam in her ice-blue eyes. Her lips were twitching at the blood that was seeping out around her mouth and soaking the leg of his trousers.

He drew a shaky breath and lifted his head, hoping there was something, anything nearby that he could use to his advantage, but there was evidently going to be no escape for him. All he saw was the sixth Plasmavore, probably the one he'd been pursuing to the end of the alleyway. She had apparently turned back and was now in front of him with a look of naked hatred in her pale eyes. She was likewise identical to the others.

He swallowed and shut his eyes for a moment. He'd had a vague hope he might've been dealing with a mismatched ad hoc band of vigilantes. At least with a group like that, he could've hoped for conflicting opinions and general dissension. Plasmavore siblings, though, would undoubtedly share a similar mindset and thus be rabidly devoted to their goal. And this particular set of sisters was clever. They'd set a cunning lure, deliberately drawn him away from anyone who could help him and caught him in their carefully set trap.

A hard slap blazed across his cheek, forcing his head to the side and causing his eyes to snap open. The fangs in his body sunk marginally deeper. He let out a strangled yelp, then sucked in a deep breath so quickly that he almost choked on a clash of inhalation and exhalation. He could feel his skin flushing and sweat beginning to trickle down his spine. Part of that response was caused by the soporific, but the rest was purely a reaction to physical distress.

A set of fingers with long, sharp nails grasped his chin, and his head was firmly pulled back around to face the one he'd been chasing. She was so close to him that he could smell the sickening tang of fresh blood on her breath. The blood of that poor soul back in the first alleyway.

"It _is_ you," she whispered in awe as she released her hold on him. Her eyes darted over his face with an odd mixture of disgust, amazement and fury blending across her features, then her voice rose slightly in volume and cold contempt crept into her tone. "The Judoon claimed you were dead, and we might have believed you to be so, had you not been so persistent in meddling with the affairs of this planet. Fortunate for us. Now you will pay for your part in our mother's death."

His hearts beat faster, responding to realization of how dire his situation truly was. They weren't just any group of Plasmavores set to a task of revenge. They were a set of daughters, six unified minds further bound by maternal affinity. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to calm, managed to bring his breathing and the elevated pace of his hearts under a semblance of control. It was fortunate that they couldn't inject another dose of soporific without releasing him and biting again. He didn't think they'd risk that right now. Even so, his body was having a great deal of difficulty nullifying what was already in his system. It was strong stuff.

"It was the Judoon who hunted and killed your mother, not me," he said, his voice shaking despite his efforts to hold it steady. He wasn't sure why he was bothering to point out the fact that he hadn't actually been the one to carry out the execution. It wouldn't make him any less culpable in their eyes, and he very much doubted they were about to change their tactics or abandon their goal, certainly not because of anything he might say or do. Other than die, of course, and he wasn't about to do that, not willingly.

"It was your blood that betrayed her," she replied in a tightly controlled voice. She had the certainty of the righteous in her. "The human woman made that point clear."

He frowned for a moment, and then recalled the recordings the Judoon would've made. The Plasmavore might very well be referring to Martha. She must've said something about what he'd done. Clever Martha in figuring it out. Right now, though, he had to turn the Plasmavores attention away from her. He didn't want her involved in this in any way whatsoever. "I didn't exactly force your mother to drink my blood," he said with as much heat as he could muster, hoping to return the entirely of their focus to him. "She was more than willing to make a meal out of me."

The Plasmavore on his hip apparently took offense at his glibness and yanked her fangs out of his flesh before plunging them back in. Fresh pain went zinging along his nerves and his vision briefly went out of focus as another dose of sedative was released into his bloodstream.

The one who'd been speaking to him grabbed his chin again and gave his head a sharp jerk to force his attention back on her. He blinked and looked into her narrowed eyes. "You deliberately deceived our mother. You aided and abetted her murder," she said in a tone that indicated she saw nothing but reason and logic in her words. "There is nothing that will exonerate you of that."

"I doubt the Shadow Proclamation would agree with you," he muttered, not realizing his mistake in invoking that name until her fist connected with his cheek. Breath deserted him entirely for a moment and specks of phantom light sparked in front of his eyes. Fangs moved and flesh tore. He tried to hold his body as still as possible in order to forestall any further damage, but she thwarted the attempt by grabbing his tie and a fistful of shirt, yanking him closer.

Her sisters' fingers constricted to the point of deeply bruising, and they clenched their jaws so tightly he could feel their peripheral teeth digging into his flesh. The pain was so intense that it registered as heat, surging through his body before receding and leaving him chilled. He shivered as she hissed into his ear, "Do not speak to us of the Shadow Proclamation. They are nothing but murderers and manipulators, arrogant thieves and liars. Their law is artifice and insincerity. True justice is blood for blood, limb for limb, life for life. _That_ is how your punishment shall be measured."

She gave him a backwards shove as she let go of him, the abrupt movement causing her sisters' fangs to shift again. This time his femoral artery was nicked and the flow of blood out of his thigh increased. He could feel it drenching his trouser leg and running down inside, from his thigh to his calf, then saturating his sock and pooling inside his shoe. Panicked survival instincts exploded as he felt a stomach-churning jolt of terror the likes of which he hadn't experienced since Midnight, when he'd come so close to being wiped from existence.

It was unlikely Jack and his team would find him anytime soon. They were probably still sweeping the first building and the immediate environs. He'd gone too far away from that area and hadn't told anyone so much as the direction he was heading. And there had been no one on the street to be of any assistance to the Torchwood team in that regard. He was utterly alone and defenseless.

So the Plasmavore's daughters would have their revenge and he would regenerate. Anger erupted out of his fear. "What are you waiting for then?" he choked out. "Go on and do it. Kill me. Take my life." He wondered what they would make of his refusal to die or even retain the same appearance. Would they even pause for a moment after the regeneration energy faded, or would they take immediate vengeance on that incarnation, and again and again until his lives were spent?

"Oh, we will," the Plasmavore said, her voice now soft and thick with anticipation. "But not yet. Not here. Although perhaps a taste of what you will endure before your end."

She slid her hand across his chest and up his neck, fingers running gently through his hair before she grabbed a fistful and yanked his head back and to the side. Her other hand clamped down on the opposite shoulder. Just like the woman in the morgue. A disjointed part of his mind wondered what face he'd finally be wearing when he was laid out on a tray behind another of those doors.

A strangled moan escaped him as her fangs sank into his neck, right into his artery. He felt a spray of blood before she sealed her mouth to his skin, then momentary pressure back into the artery as the soporific was injected. With the remnants of her sisters' venom still running through his veins, he couldn't fight the effects any longer. His vision blurred and his surroundings seemed to turn and tilt around him. His thoughts slowed and foundered as the life began to flow out of him and into her.

He vaguely felt the release of the other sisters' fangs, the sudden absence causing a bizarre ache all along his limbs. Their hands still held him fast, though. There were hurried words in nearly identical voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying or why. Something tugged at his neck. A groan gurgled out of his throat as blood spurted and then was staunched with hard pressure. His scalp tingled as fingers released their hold on his hair. His head fell back, and for a moment before darkness swept over him, sparks danced across his vision and mingled with the cold light of the stars high above, scrawling new patterns across the sky.

* * *

 _He drifted among the stars, marveling at their terrible beauty as they burned in their myriad colors. A scattered and elusive multitude of ancient red. The yellow and orange of Earth's sun and her moderate kin, dying slowly over billions of years. The absence of impossible green, smothered by red and blue into white. The crimson death throes of stars fading into multihued nebulae. The aborted brown of stars that would never be. Hard pinpricks of white, the bones of near-dead suns fading down to black. The fierce, hot blue of giants, bright beacons across the universe, consuming themselves so quickly, ending so violently._

 _He could feel the universe shifting in manifest evidence of time, its shape transmuted by cause and effect, action and reaction, happenstance, serendipity, deliberate force, conscious will and unthinking accident, ebbing and flowing around islands of impervious bedrock, fixed points standing eternal._

 _Then a flare of pain shot through him, sparking and pulsing, flowing like blood through arteries and veins. Light flared before his vision began to darken. The stars abruptly receded, their light fading to icy flickers, like a sweep of glittering snow, fluttering and swirling as if stirred by an errant breeze, then whipped into violent motion and flung across the void._

A sudden, lurching movement drove him back into his body, to jumbled senses, pounding pressure in his head, ringing ears, aching joints, bitterness in his throat. His skin crawled with overlapping sensations of tingling, burning, itching. He was trembling, shaky breaths stuttering in and out of his mouth.

He had no idea where he was or what was happening. There were voices, arguing, excited, astonished, one that was tinged with fear, but he couldn't quite translate the sounds into meaning. He realized he was on his back, the floor under him moving, swaying, jolting. There was grimy metal beneath his fingertips. He managed to open his eyes and caught a glimpse of lights rapidly moving past outside a window, but then his stomach forced bile into the back of his throat and he had to close his eyes again and struggle to take slow, deep breaths.

The voices suddenly fell silent. He felt the shifting of bodies as they surrounded him, and flinched at the sudden touch of hands. He tried again to get a look at where he was and who was with him, but before he got his eyelids fully open, another wave of nausea swept over him, and his eyes turned reflexively up into his head.

A panicked breath caught in his throat as the hands began to move across his body, then he realized they were gentle, stroking calmly. Comforting. Reassuring. Benevolent. Or so his jumbled mind believed, even for moments after fingers clutched his limbs and several shocks of pain stabbed into his body. His eyes snapped open, but all he could make out before reality wavered and faded was a haze of lights slipping past outside the window, afterimages trailing behind.


	3. Uneven Odds

Chapter 3 - "Uneven Odds"

Jack and his team gathered back at the SUVs after searching the buildings in the vicinity of the Plasmavore sighting. "Did anyone find anything?" he asked impatiently and was answered with regretful looks and shaking heads. After an initial sweep hadn't produced any results, he'd set aside his uncertainty about Inman's competence and sent her out with Gwen, but apparently the extra set of eyes and ears hadn't helped.

"Damn it!" he muttered as his eyes scanned his surroundings again before he turned his attention back to his team. "Has anyone seen the Doctor?" In the frantic rush to locate the Plasmavore, he'd nearly forgotten the Doctor, but now panic leaped up and set his heart pounding painfully faster. If they'd gotten hold of the Doctor…

After a moment of silence and blank looks all around, Ianto said, "I last saw him when I was searching the first building. He was on his way out to see if the vampire had gotten out without our seeing her."

Inman nodded as she added, "He went past me right after that and headed back onto the main road."

Jack glanced at his watch. "That was over half an hour ago. Did you see which way he went?"

"He went left," she answered. "He was holding up that thing with the blue light on it–"

"Sonic screwdriver," Jack interjected.

"Okay." She drew the word out, then paused with her eyebrows raised.

"I know," he replied with a bit of irritation. "Just go with it."

She shrugged. "It must've detected something because he left in a hurry."

"And why didn't you mention this sooner?" Jack asked with increasing annoyance. She started to say something, but he interrupted her to add, "And don't tell me it was because I didn't ask."

She closed her mouth and gave him a stony stare. He was a bit taken aback by her reaction, but he gave her points for not blathering excuses or snarking back at him. He took a deep breath and blew it slowly out of his nose before asking, "Did he say anything to you?"

"No. Just held his hand out at me. I don't think he wanted me to go with him."

"Of course not," Jack muttered to himself. Why take backup when a bunch of bloodthirsty aliens were out to find you and drain you dry?

"We need to find him," Jack said tightly, feeling a shiver run up his spine at the similarity of his statement to the blood-scrawled threats of the Plasmavores.

"Jack?" Gwen asked cautiously, concern evident in her voice.

He turned towards her, to her questioning expression, and knew he had to tell them. "The Plasmavores were looking for him. That's what they're called. Plasmavores. The Doctor had a run-in with one before. She ended up dead. _We will find him._ The Doctor's their target. This is about revenge."

Gwen gasped out, "Oh no!" and covered her mouth.

Her reaction caught him off guard. She didn't know the Doctor that well, but then maybe she was thinking of how Jack would be feeling. He cut off any further comment from her or anyone else by raising his hand and making a sharp, sideways motion. Denying the possibilities by refusing to voice them. He couldn't deny, though, that a nauseating feeling was settling in the pit of his stomach. What if they'd found him, captured him, harmed him or even… Jack shook his head, forbidding the thought to complete, turning instead to action.

"Gwen, with me on foot. We'll check out the nearby side streets and alleys. Ianto and Inman, take one of the SUVs, go out at least five miles down the main road for a quick recce, then double back. He can't have gotten any farther than that on foot." His words were quick, and he knew his agitation was showing. He paused a moment to steady his breath, then said gruffly, "Okay, let's go."

He and Gwen headed out into the street and turned left as the SUV sped out ahead of them. They went at a quick jog, flashing their torches in every direction, but the only other living thing they saw was a cat slinking down an alley, stalking some kind of scurrying prey.

When the SUV returned, a slight shake of the head from Ianto told him their search had also been fruitless. Jack clenched his teeth and suppressed the urge to yell obscenities. Instead, he yanked the driver's side door open, gave Ianto a sharp nod and waited for him to vacate the seat before hopping in himself. He slammed the door with much more force than was necessary and drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while Ianto settled himself in the back seat next to Gwen. He refused to glance at them in the mirror, and he certainly wasn't going to look over at Inman in the passenger seat. He didn't know what the hell to do.

"We should go back to Torchwood," Ianto offered. "We'll make far more progress with the resources we have there than we would running around out here."

Jack knew he was right, but it was difficult to accept. He didn't want to leave without the Doctor. He took several deep breaths, then nodded decisively. "All right. But call the police back in to search on foot. They might find something we missed." He wasn't holding on to much hope of that, but at least someone would be out physically looking around.

Gwen immediately dialed her phone, but Jack tuned out whatever she was saying and concentrated instead on driving back to the crime scene. He'd drop Inman and Ianto off to pick up the body while he and Gwen headed back to the Hub to get a start on the search. He resolutely held onto the thought that they were following the best course of action under the circumstances and just as firmly shoved aside the memory of the vaguely familiar body in the alleyway.

* * *

Once they arrived in the Hub, Gwen immediately went to her workstation, and as Jack walked behind her towards his office, he said as calmly as he could manage, "Take CCTV. When Ianto gets here, tell him to cover energy scans and satellite. I'll take 999 calls. Maybe someone saw something and called it in. Inman can do a preliminary examination on the body to see if there's anything that might be of use." He felt his cheeks heating in anger when he recalled that she'd missed vital evidence earlier, but then reminded himself that even if she had noticed the greenish tinge to the victims' skin, she wouldn't have known what to make of it.

He yanked his coat off and tossed it carelessly onto his main desk chair, then sat down at his computer desk. He took a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and gently rub at his eyelids before looking at the monitor. Fortunately, his eyes seemed to have recovered enough from his earlier vampire research session that he didn't need to squint to bring the screen into focus.

As he searched through the recent emergency call logs, he vaguely heard Ianto arrive, then muttering between him and Gwen, then silence broken only by the rapid tapping of fingers on keyboards. There hadn't been many calls in the area in the last few hours. The only one that was relevant was the initial report of the finding of the body. He clicked on a button to play back the actual recording of the call. It was a woman's voice, the message quick and brief, stating merely the situation and location before the line went dead. A chill ran down Jack's spine at the cold tone of the voice. He thought he could even detect a note of anticipation. He wondered if it was the Plasmavore herself who had called in the murder.

Anger flared in him yet again, but just as he was about to throw something or at least slam his fist down on the desk, he heard Ianto saying, "I've got something." He thought he must've misheard, but he turned to see Gwen going over to stand behind Ianto's chair.

"What, already?" he asked in disbelief as he got up and went to join them.

"Yeah, I know," Ianto replied. "I guess they're getting careless."

"Maybe. What have you got?"

Ianto nodded towards the series of still satellite images he had playing in a loop on one of the monitors. "At least it's a clear night this time, so I was able to get something useful." The pictures were somewhat grainy and the area Ianto had zoomed in on was mostly dark, but there were enough streetlights for Jack to see the pattern of roadways. "This is where the body was found." Ianto pointed to a location along one of the streets. "This must be the Plasmavore," he said, his finger tracking a small blob from one time-lapsed photo to the next. Then he indicated another smudge some distance behind the first. "And that, presumably, would be the Doctor."

Jack pressed his lips together and slowly shook his head in aggravation. Would it have been too much to ask for him to wait for back-up just this once? Then again, judging from the considerable distance between him and the Plasmavore, he might've risked losing her if he hadn't followed her immediately. He had to admit he probably would've done the same himself. No, he _definitely_ would've gone after her just as the Doctor had.

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and watched until the Plasmavore disappeared between one image capture and the next, followed a few minutes later by the Doctor. "Damn it," he said, yanking his hands out of his pockets peering intently over Ianto's shoulder. "Where did they go?" He desperately hoped Ianto's answer would be anything but "I don't know."

"I think they might've gone down a side street, through here, to here." Ianto's finger slid along a barely discernable line and across to the next clearly visible road. Then he pointed to another monitor displaying data in number and graph form of various energy sources, including the Rift. "There's an energy spike of some kind in that vicinity very soon afterwards."

"Do you think it has anything to do with the Rift?" Jack asked, his heart speeding up a little. That would rank fairly high on the list of worst-case scenarios.

"No, it's not the same kind of energy. I'm not sure what it is."

That was actually somewhat reassuring to Jack. At least the unknown held some chance of not being completely negative, sort of like a box containing every possibility. You didn't know what was in it until you opened it up.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gwen sit back down at her workstation and resume typing. "I'll see if there's any CCTV coverage in that area," she said as she narrowed her eyes and leaned towards the center monitor.

Jack went to stand behind her and watched as she brought up a map of CCTV camera locations, accessed the one closest to the target area and brought up the footage time-stamped just prior to the energy spike. The image that popped up showed a black van without license plates parked outside of an alley and a person wearing dark clothing heading towards the van from the direction of the alley. The resolution wasn't particularly high, but as soon as Gwen activated the image enhancement algorithms, Jack was able to see the person's face quite clearly. It was the Plasmavore.

"Okay, there _she_ is," he muttered as he rested one of his hands on the back of Gwen's chair. "Now where's the Doctor?" He watched the Plasmavore get into the driver's seat of the van as another person emerged from the alley, a woman who was disconcertingly similar in appearance to the first.

"You were right about there being more than one," Ianto stated matter-of-factly, his voice louder than expected.

Jack startled a bit and turned his head to see that Ianto was standing next to him now. He hadn't noticed him getting up from his workstation. "Wasn't me. It was the Doctor who told me that," he answered absently as he returned his attention to the computer monitor in time to see the second Plasmavore opening the back doors of the van and hopping lightly inside.

Directly after that, yet another pair of women matched in appearance to the first two emerged from the alley with someone between them. It took Jack a moment to realize it was the Doctor. He was no longer wearing his coat or jacket, and the white of his shirt was stark and strange. He was rarely in shirtsleeves in Jack's experience. His head was down and each of the Plasmavores was tightly gripping one of his upper arms with one of their own hands, so Jack assumed at first that they were leading him forwards, but then he saw that the Doctor's feet were dragging on the ground. They were holding him up and carrying him one-handed. Damn, but they were strong. The Doctor might be skinny, but he wasn't a lightweight.

All of that was bad enough, but then Jack noticed something that caused an even sharper surge of anxiety to run through him. There were dark splotches on the collar of the Doctor's shirt and on both arms. If those were bloodstains…

Jack's thoughts started to race. No, he wasn't dead. Couldn't be dead. Not like that. He would've regenerated. Again, doubt crept in. The Master hadn't. But he was a selfish bastard and a lunatic to boot. The Doctor wouldn't refuse to regenerate. He wouldn't give up. No, the Plasmavores must've bitten him to inject him with the sedative he'd told Jack about. The multiple bites were probably because they needed more than one dose to knock him out. Even though their physical strength seemed to be considerable, it was usually easier to transport an unconscious prisoner. No kicking and screaming that way. At least not until later. There was only one reason Jack could think of that you'd take someone captive when you wanted him dead.

Jack tried to swallow, but his throat had gone suddenly dry. He realized both of his hands were now clutching the back of Gwen's chair, his muscles tensing to the point of involuntarily twitching, but he didn't let go or attempt to make himself relax. Instead he watched intently as the two Plasmavores carrying the Doctor turned to back up to the van, tilted him almost horizontal with the help of their free hands slid under his legs, and started to push him inside. His head flopped back and banged against the floor of the van, but his body remained limp. Jack winced but didn't look away as the Plasmavores easily finished maneuvering the Doctor into the van. They seemed to be every bit as agile and well-coordinated as they were strong. Any struggle the Doctor had put up had probably been easily overcome.

Yet another figure appeared with a bundle of some kind in her arms, which she tossed into the back of the van before climbing in herself. Jack frowned in confusion but then it occurred to him that what she'd been carrying was probably the Doctor's missing coat and suit jacket. He wondered why they'd bothered to remove those particular items of clothing, unless it was because it was too much fabric to easily bite through. That possibility knitted together with other details as his mind started shaping unwanted images of what might've taken place in the alley. He didn't want to see that, not even imagined.

One final sister appeared, closed the doors, then went to the front of the van to get into the passenger side front seat. Six in all, just as the Doctor had said, and all seemingly identical, so that confirmed they were sisters.

Jack could feel his skin growing clammy, and his stomach clenched painfully as he fought against his mind's attempts to wander off into horrible imaginings. The delay of the Plasmavores' revenge could only mean they intended a prolonged and painful death for their victim, which indicated to Jack that their vendetta was intensely personal. They might even be related to the one the Doctor had encountered on the Moon. That took the situation from very bad to decidedly worse. He doubted there'd be much mercy involved.

He shook his head to break the train of thought. He needed to keep his focus. He took a slow, deep breath, then another. It didn't help very much.

At least they had the van on camera. They could track it along the CCTV network. He forced himself to let go of Gwen's chair and stand up straight but had to wrap his arms tightly around his chest, quivering fingertips digging into his sides, to keep his entire body from shaking. A wave of heat and dizziness washed over him a moment later, though, as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and … vanished. One second it was there and the next it was gone.

"What the hell?" His arms dropped to his sides and one hand blindly groped back to the support of Gwen's chair while the other clenched into a fist. "They must be using some kind of cloaking technology," he said, having to speak carefully to keep a tremor from creeping into his voice. "Is there an infrared feed?"

"It's not a very well-lit part of the city, so there might be," Gwen replied as she typed a bit. "Yes, here it is," she said as she pulled up a multicolored view of the scene, then rewound to the appearance of the first Plasmavore.

Jack watched numbly as the Doctor was yet again dragged out of the alley. He glanced at the scale to the side of the thermographic image and was relieved to see his skin registered close to human normal. Jack knew the Doctor's core temperature was well below that of a human's, but his skin was only slightly cool to the touch. At least that helped to verify the Plasmavores weren't just hauling off a dead body to keep as some kind of macabre trophy.

He waited apprehensively for the moment when the van had disappeared from the visible light feed, desperately wishing it would remain detectable by infrared, but that hope was dashed as the van yet again went invisible. There weren't even any faint tracks to indicate tire friction against the road. He ran his hands up into his hair and pulled hard, barely managing to keep his temper in check.

"That's a hell of a cloaking device," Gwen said. Her voice was steady, nearly calm, and that helped Jack to reign in his emotions somewhat.

"Yeah," he muttered hoarsely as he scrubbed his hands over his face. He dazedly walked over to the other workstation and dropped heavily into the chair. It felt like a load of rocks had been dumped into his stomach, and his head was buzzing as if he'd downed half a bottle of whiskey on top of that. He leaned over and crossed his arms on top of his knees then glanced up and saw Ianto giving him a concerned look. Worried about him. Jack didn't meet his eyes directly. He didn't need anyone wasting energy fretting over him right now. And he needed to stop giving them cause to do so. He took a deep breath and forced himself to sit up straight.

"Okay," he said, and had to pause to clear his throat, but his voice held steady after that. "I've only run across cloaking technology that sophisticated a couple of times. These Plasmavores must've dumped their entire life savings onto the black market, or killed a lot of people to get their hands on it. We don't have anything remotely advanced or powerful enough to crack through a cloaking field like that. We'll have to look for indirect evidence of its location. Any ideas?"

"I can run a search algorithm on CCTV footage in the area," Gwen said, "check for anything odd that might indicate the presence of something invisible passing by."

"Excellent. Do it."

As Gwen began tapping away at her keyboard, Ianto offered hesitantly, "What about setting up a continuous scan on satellite images to check for any disappearing or reappearing vehicles? Probably a long-shot…"

"No, it's a good idea. They might be using a device that takes too much energy to run continuously for long periods of time." _Or not,_ he added to himself. Portable devices of that kind tended to have long-lasting, self-contained power sources. But then why had they waited to activate it until after they'd loaded the Doctor into the van? Maybe they'd deliberately allowed the abduction to be caught on camera, wanting to taunt anyone who thought they could save him. That kind of recklessness usually led to mistakes. Their apparent arrogance might be their undoing. He could only hope, and try to make up for any shortcomings in that department with grim determination.

"Can you set up the scan from the computer in my office?" Jack asked Ianto.

"I think so."

"Good. I need to use this workstation for a few minutes. I have to do something I really don't want to do."

"What's that?" Ianto asked with obvious curiosity.

Jack paused a moment, took a steadying breath, then said firmly, "I'm going to send a message to the Shadow Proclamation." He was struggling to set aside any doubt that this was the right thing to do, but they needed to use all resources available to them, no matter how distasteful.

Ianto raised an eyebrow in surprise and Gwen swiveled her chair to look at him with a deep frown on her face. "I know, I know," he said, holding his hands up in front of himself. "They're a bunch of meddling, arrogant, self-righteous bastards, but they've got some serious hardware backing them up. Their scanners might be able to break through that cloaking field."

He didn't wait to see what further reactions Gwen or Ianto might have. He had to do this even though it galled him. He turned to face the workstation and tapped his finger on the mouse, rapidly clicking to bring up the IM application on the center monitor. He quickly found the entry the Doctor had put in the user list. ShadProc. Perfect abbreviation. It sounded every bit as rude and offensive as a few choice and colorful words he could think of to describe the Proclamation.

The slight bit of amusement he was feeling at the Doctor's subversive cleverness evaporated as he paused to consider what he was going to say in the message. For the first time it occurred to him that the Doctor had set this up as a back-up plan in case something happened to him. Presumably he could contact the Proclamation any time he wanted, or show up on their front doorstep for that matter, and Jack was certain he hadn't been planning on leaving Earth until the Plasmavore situation had been dealt with. There was really no reason for him to give Jack a means to send a message to the Proclamation unless he was concerned he wouldn't be able to do it himself.

Now that he thought about it, he supposed it was entirely possible the Doctor had intended from the beginning to hand himself over to the Plasmavores so they wouldn't kill anyone else to get at him. Jack was too worried to be angry about it now, though. He'd save it for later when he could personally smack the Doctor upside the head for being a damn martyr. He settled for typing with more force than was necessary, his fingers quick and precise on the keys.

" _Reporting six Plasmavores present on Earth, suspected of murdering six sentients and now believed to have abducted the Time Lord known as the Doctor."_

He hit enter and waited, impatiently tapping his index fingers against the keys they were resting on, his right leg jittering up and down. The response popped less than a minute later. Either business was slow or something in his message had triggered a keyword alert. Possibly "Plasmavores." Maybe the entire species was on some kind of watch list for repeat violations of the Sentient Species Act. Or it could be "Time Lord" and "Doctor," for any number of reasons, not all good.

" _Dispatching nearest local enforcement agents to investigate. In accordance with Nonintervention Clause, scans will be conducted from orbit. Expected time of arrival for enforcement vessel, two standard galactic units."_

Fifteen minutes, give or take. They must've had someone in the area. That was a stroke of good luck. He drew in and blew out a long, slow breath. Then he got very, very annoyed. Orbital scans. Because of the Nonintervention Clause. Even after he'd told them a bunch of Plasmavores were running amuck killing humans. And were getting ready to do the same to the person who'd covered their sanctimonious arses when the Daleks came to call. He briefly considered sending back a scathing reply but managed to restrain himself. At least they'd agreed to do _something,_ and he had to admit that even the orbital scanning technology the Proclamation used was impressive.

"Right, then," Gwen said as she made a few final, decisive taps on her keyboard. "There's the search algorithm running. Anything else I can do?"

The question was pure practicality, not the sort of hollow sympathy that often came with those words. Bless her for that. "Yeah," he replied as he leaned forward a bit, willing the reply from the Shadow Proclamation to arrive sooner than it possibly could. "The Doctor told me the Plasmavores' victims were all at the Royal Hope when it was relocated to the Moon. Check on the status of anyone else that was there."

Jack knew it wouldn't make any difference in finding the Doctor, and the rest of the people who had been at the Royal Hope were probably safe now that the Plasmavores had what they wanted, but he still needed to know if they'd missed any other victims apart from the ones they were aware of. He didn't know what he'd do with himself if that were the case. If only they'd found the connection sooner, they might've been able to somehow protect at least one or two of the people the Plasmavores had killed.

Gwen gave Jack a looked of worried understanding, but nodded and set to her work without further comment. Jack returned to staring at the computer monitor in front of him for a few more minutes, then got frustrated looking at a blinking cursor that was refusing to resolve into words. He shoved his chair back and pressed his palms against the edge of the desk to lever himself up, then shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and proceeded to pace with deliberate slowness from the stairs to his office door and back again. He didn't like to pace rapidly. It made him feel like he needed to start running. He felt more in control this way. Or so he liked to tell himself.

"The Doctor was at least right about the Plasmavores' victims," Gwen said, and he immediately went to stand behind her to see what she'd found. He didn't doubt what the Doctor had said, but he needed some kind of distraction from waiting for a reply from the Shadow Proclamation. "Two of the six were patients at the Royal Hope the day it disappeared, two were family members of patients, probably visiting, one was a doctor and one was a delivery person. It took me a few minutes to figure out where to look to find that last one."

"How the hell did we miss finding this before now?" Jack asked as he leaned forwards to glance at the all-too-familiar names listed on various pages displayed on Gwen's monitors.

"Mostly problems with indexing for data mining searches, but we didn't have access to the delivery company database until just now. There's been a huge backlog of that sort of thing since … well, since Tosh."

He set aside the comment about Tosh – not something he wanted to think about right now – and said with some annoyance in his voice, "That needs to be fixed ASAP. After this is over, I've got a friend who's going to return a favor he owes me by tracking down and tapping in to every damn database he can find. Should've done it before now, but it can be tricky to get convicted hackers of his caliber a weekend pass out of jail. I'm not going to take no for an answer this time."

Gwen gave a soft snort and started to close the screens she'd opened for her initial Royal Hope searches. He didn't want to watch the names disappearing into nothing more than bits of data lost amongst countless others, so he resumed his pacing. Gwen continued typing away, presumably working on finding the status of the rest of the people who had been at the Royal Hope. Knowing her, she was probably also starting to attend to some of the database issues. She'd probably have to do so in order to complete her task.

Jack made two more circuits of his path, then finally had to give up his pretense of being in control because it was playing havoc with his breathing and probably his blood pressure as well. He sat back down at Ianto's work station. The infernal reply cursor was still blinking.

"C'mon," he muttered impatiently. "How long does it take to scan one little planet?" He jiggled the mouse a bit, then resorted to drumming his fingers rapidly on the desktop. Finally, the response appeared. "About damn time," he said gruffly as he nudged his chair closer to the desk.

" _Agents report negative detection of Plasmavore life signs. No biological profile on file for Time Lord species, but remaining thirty-six types of life forms not indigenous to planet designated Earth are positively identified and do not fit search parameters."_

A stray part of him was surprised at the assertion that there were thirty-six different types of aliens currently present on Earth, but his primary reaction was one of disappointed frustration. There was also an undercurrent of panic at the thought that the Plasmavores might've taken the Doctor completely off the planet already, but he suppressed that. They had to proceed under the assumption that he was still on Earth. A search for him was nearly hopeless otherwise, and Jack wasn't ready to give in so quickly.

So that left them with nothing other than indirect methods and hoping for a fantastic stroke of luck. Then again, maybe the Doctor would manage to finagle a way out of this himself. That was certainly possible. He was ridiculously resourceful. Hell, maybe he'd be able to talk the Plasmavores out of killing him altogether, but Jack had the feeling the Doctor's best hope was for the Plasmavores to do something monumentally idiotic or to decide to torture him before they killed him and thus allow him time to somehow save himself or to give others the chance to do it for him. Not comfortable or reassuring thoughts.

"Not good?" Gwen asked gently.

"No." A massive headache was starting to pound at the inside of his skull. He rubbed hard at his temples with his fingertips. He felt like he needed to down an entire bottle of paracetamol. He opened his eyes and was starting to get up from the workstation – to do what, he had no idea – when more words appeared on the monitor. He settled back into his chair and squinted to force the letters into focus.

" _Bulletin dispatched to all relevant authorities regarding six rogue Plasmavores with last known location planet designated Earth. Missing persons report for Time Lord known as the Doctor will be automatically filed and recorded when jurisdictional time allowances have expired unless update is received. Will advise if additional information is processed."_

Now he could definitely feel his blood pressure going up, making his head throb even harder. _Bloody bureaucratic bastards._ He spread his fingers tensely above the keyboard, intending to make a scaldingly rude reply, but then he squeezed his right hand into a fist and pounded it on the desk.

"What is it?" Gwen asked.

"Read it for yourself," he said as he got up, crossed his arms tightly over his chest and paced slowly over to her workstation as she shifted to his. He stared at the rapidly flashing CCTV images displayed in one corner of her monitor. Must be the search algorithm looking for transient traces of the unusual. Yet another needle in a haystack. He absolutely could not stand feeling helpless or dismissed or thwarted, and all three were present in full force right now.

"But that's something, isn't it, Jack?" Gwen asked quietly.

He didn't look at her. He had to struggle not to yell. "It just means they've done their bureaucratic duty and sent out nice little memos," he said derisively. "They're not even going to consider the Doctor to be officially missing until every other fuckwit on their 'relevant authorities' list wastes their time doing nothing."

"But surely they'll do _something_ for the Doctor," she said, disbelief and confusion mixed in her voice. "They won't just abandon him."

"They can and they have. Torchwood's on its own. Again." He stalked past her into his office and nearly ran into Ianto, who was on his way out. He'd forgotten Ianto was working in there.

"I set up the satellite scans and finished going through the 999 calls," Ianto said, his voice trailing into uncertainty as he spoke. Jack imagined that had everything to do with the look of death he must be wearing on his face. Ianto displayed his usual knack of reading people's moods and anticipating their needs, though, and added without the least bit of hesitation, "I'll just leave you alone now. I'm sure Gwen can fill me in."

With that, Ianto was gone, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Jack in the midst of a maelstrom of destructive emotions. Didn't matter if the Doctor had saved the entire blasted universe not that long ago. For the moment he was relegated to being just another sentient, equal to all others in the eyes of the law and universal concordance, preferential treatment not to be given under any circumstances, blah, blah, blah.

Jack stood breathing heavily for a moment, then started picking up objects at random from his desk and throwing them as hard as he could at the wall. The impacts made some vaguely satisfying noises until there was there the metallic clang of an old-fashioned alarm clock ringer. He set down the object he was currently holding in his hand without noting what it was, then went over and knelt down next to the scattered pieces of the clock. It was old, the silver of the case tarnished beyond polishing. It didn't keep the time very well, and had to be wound twice a day. And it was the one thing on his desk that wasn't his to destroy.

A complete stranger, a woman with a riot of curly red hair, had walked up to him on a street corner in London almost forty years earlier and given it to him, asking him to keep it safe for its owner, apparently someone other than herself. An odd enough occurrence in and of itself, but the truly startling and unnerving thing about the encounter was that she'd called him by name – his real name, the one his mother and father had given him. He'd been too stunned to do anything but stare at her as she gave him a small, sad smile and walked away.

He numbly began to gather the pieces up, but the impact had flung them widely around the office, so it took a bit of searching and crawling around on the floor to locate them all. Once he'd gathered everything he could find and piled them on his desk, he sagged into his chair and stirred the mess of pieces with one finger, pushing them across his desktop until each part was free of the others, none of them touching. He sat there and stared at them for a while before picking up the phone to call Martha.


	4. The Fragmentation of Hope

Chapter 4 – "The Fragmentation of Hope"

 _He was standing at the edge of a vast body of still, black water, a silent ocean under a dark and starless sky. He could barely discern the water at his feet, and when he looked across the sea, he had to push to the limit of his vision to find a horizon so far away across the silence. He finally located the place where water met sky, but managed only a brief glimpse before his eyes were filled with blinding light._

 _He felt heat beginning to prickle his skin, the touch of fire feathering over his body, new life to blaze away the old and remake him in a new image. The prospect made him want to weep at the same time as it angered him. It was too soon. It shouldn't be like this. His life would be renewed, but it was one step closer to true and final death._

 _Then he felt the water rushing over him in a great wave, the flames abruptly extinguished before they could complete their work. The clash of heat and ice screamed agony into his bones, and he was pulled from the shore and out into freezing water. The sharpness of panic seared him, but then the weight of his body fell away, his senses frayed and unraveled, and he was left adrift in the silence and bitter cold._

He was dragged back into the feeble warmth of the world by the persistent thudding of dull pain. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, but as it sharpened and intensified, he realized it was deep in his bones, down in the marrow. Blood. His body was struggling to counter a horrendous loss of blood. It had nearly pushed him to the point of regeneration. He had a vague notion that it had happened more than once. He wasn't certain what had been happening to him, but he had an inkling that this was the first time he'd been able to rouse to this level of awareness.

His mind scrabbled to gather up whirling shreds of memory, but just as recollection was beginning to coalesce, he felt blood cells bursting out of his bones with such force it felt as though the bones would shatter. That agony was followed closely by the nauseating rush of fluids being pulled from every available part of his body, from muscle and sinew, from skin and membranes, from one of each of the paired organs. Even the more adaptable parts of his brain were being ravaged for precious fluid to supplement the blood cells that were streaming out of his bones.

His throat burned. He realized he was screaming. And then, as abruptly as it had started, it was done. His body stilled, one heart carrying most of the burden to pump the renewed supply of blood through his body while the partially desiccated heart struggled to keep pace. His skin slowly began to absorb the dampness of the humid air, moisture spreading through his body and reviving critically dehydrated tissues. His second heart gradually thumped back to a steady rhythm and his breathing eased. But he was wrung out, sapped of strength, his thoughts murky and sluggish.

Other bits of awareness began to gradually seep into him as his senses stirred one by one. He could smell damp cloth tinged with the rank scent of stale sweat. The taste of dust was in his mouth, along with a hint of copper. He registered the redness of light passing through his closed eyelids but couldn't manage to open them. He struggled to concentrate and finally persuaded them to cooperate. He had to blink several times before his vision began to clear.

Crumbling plaster on the ceiling above him. Out of his peripheral vision, a hint of light flickering on faded and peeling floral wallpaper. He was on what felt like a bed, although not a very comfortable one. Scratchy sheets below and over him, the top one pulled up over his chest with his arms laid on top. He didn't think he was wearing anything underneath the sheet. No pillow under his head either.

A cool breeze fluttered over him, carrying with it the smell of recently fallen rain. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, damp earth and a faint, spicy scent of some flower he couldn't identify.

His body hurt horribly, arms and legs and neck throbbing with muffled beats of pain. He opened his eyes again and managed to tilt his head just enough to look down at himself. In the faint light, he could make out dark smudges on his arms – bruises? – and a multitude of small, round wounds, seemingly in pairs. There was something spotted and smudged onto the sheet, dried in places, drying and sticking to his skin in others, with a few fresh spots of bright red spattered over all. Blood. His own blood.

His head fell back and he sucked in his breath as memory jolted through him. Plasmavores. Six of them. He panicked, tried to sit up but found the strength to do that was nowhere within his reach. His breathing degraded to halting rasps and he could feel his fingertips twitching, but he was shocked into complete stillness when he heard a silky voice to the side saying, "Have no fear. The fire has faded back to embers."

He swallowed hard and forced his head sideways. His eyes first found the source of the pale, yellow light – a single glass-chimneyed oil lamp sitting a short distance away on an expanse of bare hardwood floor, boards timeworn and warped. The light stung his dark-accustomed eyes for a moment before he was able to look beyond it to where they were sitting – six pallid wraiths with a glimmer of bluish moonlight washing over their shoulders from a pair of open windows behind them.

One was sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back against the far wall, while the others were resting on various pieces of battered furniture. Two were ensconced on a ponderous leather sofa, one of them reclining in a corner and the other at the opposite end with her knees drawn up and her head resting on the sofa's rolled arm. Two more were propped at angles in a pair of wing chairs, one of them with a leg dangling over the arm of her chair. Although their postures seemed to indicate they had been in a relaxed state, their bodies were now tense and their eyes bright and avid.

The final one was seated on a ladderback chair to the side of the room, a few feet closer to him than the others, as if she were some kind of sentinel. She was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her posture rigid and an awed and eager look in her eyes. He drew a shuddering breath and forced down another rising bubble of panic as she rose smoothly to her feet and walked with measured footsteps towards him, bending to lift up the oil lamp as she went.

Her sisters remained on the far side of the room, but silently stood and rearranged themselves in an imposing row. For a moment he was struck by their resemblance to the Sidhe. It was difficult to believe these unearthly women were related to the Plasmavore he'd encountered on the Moon. Maybe their mother had altered her appearance to something significantly less remarkable in order to blend in with the human population. A face people would look right past, plain and ordinary. A practical mother with violently devoted daughters. A chill swept over him and settled in his limbs.

The one approaching him stopped and looked down at him as she licked her lips. He glared stonily back at her, although it took some effort. "Your blood recovery mechanism is quite astonishing," she said with a small shake of her head. "We thought we had taken enough to incapacitate you at first, but you began to recover quickly and most inconveniently. We had to take you down to the point of death to make your body obey us. And still you rebelled."

She knelt and set the lamp down on the floor, then leaned towards him, peering intently at him. He managed to keep his face still, not even blinking. She must be the same sister who had savaged his neck in the alley, or at least she was the only one who had spoken to him so far. There was also something about her, a curiosity in her expression, as if she were trying to puzzle him out. The others seemed little more than ciphers to him, their only recognizable emotion hatred.

"So exquisitely full of life," she said with reverence in her voice, "like nothing we have encountered before. Such a wellspring of experience and potential. And the darkness and fire in your mind – beautiful and terrible in their own right, but heralds to something else, I think."

This time he did blink, several times, rapidly, and his hearts fell out of synchronization for a few beats. What had she said when he'd first awoken? _The fire has faded back to embers._ "You saw that?" he said faintly.

"Oh, yes," she said breathlessly. "When an animate being is so close to its undoing, when it is at its weakest and most vulnerable, we can see what is there, waiting at the very edges." Her face flushed, the color stark on her pale skin, and her eyes grew unfocused and distant. "We looked into you and saw a vast ocean heavy with darkness, and then the air flashed full of such beautiful fire. We felt the tantalizing touch of the flames and the shock of the water. It was invigorating. Intoxicating." She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly and with a slight quiver, then looked at him clearly again.

He was disturbed by the fact that they'd been able to see into his mind, even if only for that short span of time when he'd been skimming the edge of death, but the effect it had obviously had on her was even more unsettling. Simply recalling the experience seemed to have momentarily besotted her. What had it been like for them when they'd been caught up in the immediacy of it? The thought frightened, fascinated and disgusted him.

"And the taste of you," she murmured, her eyes darting across his face as she spoke. "So rich and exotic. Subtly nuanced in flavor. Unexpectedly cooler in the blood than on the skin. But perhaps most exquisite of all is the hypnotic beat of your life echoing itself in your two hearts. You are every bit as unique to us in the body as in mind and spirit. Something to be savored."

She had been leaning nearer to him as she spoke, and now she closed the scant distance still separating them and grazed her lips across his, her tongue flicking out to slide over his teeth. He clamped his mouth shut, but not before tasting his own blood on her tongue. Fresh blood mixed with blood long dried. Many days old. That realization pushed all other considerations aside for a moment. How long had he been here? His sense of time was disturbingly muddled. Maybe it was the effect of the soporific they would've been pouring into his body every time they sank their fangs into him.

He was brought back to his immediate situation by her hand running down the side of his face and lingering on the multitude of aches in his neck. "I do believe you were even more delectable after your blood was replenished that first time," she said languidly. "And since then, each feast has been a fascinating delight, always shifting, never the same. I am eager to discover how you taste now that you have been drained and your veins filled yet again."

She pulled away from him and glanced over her shoulder as she said, "Join me." Her tone was commanding, as if she held some kind of authority over the others. He found his mind incongruously attempting to find an explanation for that fact, throwing up analytical defenses against fear as he watched the others drift slowly but purposefully towards him. Perhaps she was the eldest of them. With six identical offspring to a brood, the only obvious and consistent differentiating trait at the time of birth would be the order in which the offspring came into the world. That might afford her some kind of reverence.

The five presumably younger sisters fanned out around the bed and knelt to join their elder in a formation of three to either side. They were so close, dilated eyes welling with desire. Now the panic was impossible to fight. There was no denying what they were about to do. He sucked rapid breaths in through his nose, his eyes darting back and forth from one sister to the next to the next.

They reached for him, and he tried desperately to move, but their hands held him down and he had no strength in him to counter theirs. All he managed was a twist of his head and a weak flailing of one hand before that too was pinned down.

The sheet was gently pushed aside in multiple places, just enough to reveal fresh skin. He doubted they had any care for his modesty, though. More likely, they were aroused by the tantalizing anticipation of more flesh hidden away for their future pleasure. He flinched as fangs slid deftly into veins instead of arteries. They were going to do it slowly, carefully, relishing each drop of blood.

Their sedating venom flooded his body. He didn't try to fight it. He didn't want to remain aware of what was happening to him any longer than he had to, but the soporific wasn't enough to drag him under immediately. He wondered if they had some control over the amount or the potency of the drug and were using it to keep him more aware this time. He could keenly feel the fangs piercing his body, the blood being slowly drawn out of him. He wanted so badly to flee into oblivion.

A stray thought slithered through his mind, and he grabbed at it. Oxygen. Less oxygen to the brain. He felt a warped sense of satisfaction as he managed to starve his brain just enough to take him to the edge of unconsciousness, where very little additional blood loss was needed to carry him over.

* * *

As Jack had pessimistically dreaded, their attempts to find some clue as to the Doctor's whereabouts had met with failure. The CCTV and satellite scans hadn't yielded any useful results. Even their efforts to mine every imaginable resource, from hard data and official reports all the way down to straw-grasping Internet searches, had been futile. The police hadn't found anything useful, either, but Jack wondered how hard they had looked considering the source of the request. Some might've dismissed the search as yet another Torchwood hunt for imagined monsters, some might've been unwilling to dig too deeply and uncover real terrors. The reactions to and coping mechanisms drawn from the invasion of Daleks and relocation of the Earth were bewilderingly vast. Not everyone had actually seen the Daleks, after all, and there were those who rarely looked at the night sky or listened to the news.

Jack had even ordered alerts sent out with photos and descriptions of both the Doctor and the Plasmavores, but there'd been no meaningful response in the entire week since the Plasmavores had stolen the Doctor away. It was as if they'd disappeared off the face of the Earth. Jack had to firmly tell himself time and time again that it was unlikely they'd managed to smuggle the Doctor off the planet. Visitations of spaceships to Earth were actually relatively rare, and Torchwood was well connected with global resources that would detect such a thing. Aliens were far more likely to come through the Rift.

It did raise the question, though, of how the Plasmavores had arrived. Jack had gone back to look at the satellite and sensor logs and was somewhat reassured to see there had been indications of a small ship arriving and then leaving just before the Plasmavore's murdering spree had begun. They must have paid or bartered or threatened their way here, but there had been nothing since then. He was annoyed, though, that there didn't seem to be any kind of alert in place for incoming or outgoing ships as there was for spikes in Rift activity. There must've been at one time, but he supposed it might've been accidentally deactivated by one or another of Tosh's failed replacements. He had Gwen amend the situation. The Plasmavores wouldn't be able to leave without an alarm being raised. He tried to ignore the fact that Torchwood probably wouldn't be able to intercept the ship if it made a quick turn and burn.

The TARDIS remained parked in the Plass, undisturbed. Once each day, Jack let himself in with the key he still had in his possession, but the lights in the control room were always dim, the air cold and stale, energy levels in reserve mode despite the fact that she could draw more fuel from the Rift anytime she wanted to. The TARDIS was sleeping. The lord of the manor was gone, and his lady awaited him in silence.

Real sleep had eluded Jack the entire time, but every now and then he would crawl into his bed or put his head on his desk and let himself drift, try not to think or feel for just a little while. He and Martha had been keeping in touch via telephone at least once each day, but today there was a soft knock on his office door. He lifted his head sluggishly from his desk. Martha was leaning around the edge of the door, seemingly reluctant to disturb him.

"Hi," he said dully, and gestured for her to come in. She entered and closed the door behind her, then walked over and settled herself in a chair across the desk from him. Her eyes were soft, gentle, apologetic. He nodded his head, not needing her words to know that she hadn't come here with good news. Or bad news. Any news at all.

"I…" She paused, swallowed. "I'm taking care of some UNIT business here in Cardiff. I thought I'd take the opportunity to stop by."

Of course. He hadn't thought it would take long before her superiors would insist she return to her regular duties. The military was like that. He'd soon have to do the same. He couldn't expect the rest of his team to keep taking up the slack. The world didn't stop turning because one man was missing, despite that man being the reason the world was still turning at all. That was bitter truth, and it left a vile taste in his mouth.

He looked away from her, down at the clock he'd managed to mend, not without a good deal of error and frustration and swearing along the way. There was one piece he hadn't managed to find yet, part of the side casing. The metal around the outside of the clock had been divided into six curved segments, the joints covered by small bars of rounded silver. The one section still missing left a gap that allowed him to hear the clicking of the gears more clearly, the hollow echo of the passing seconds a reminder of what he'd failed to do.

"If you're only here to check on me, you didn't have to bother," he finally muttered.

"I know," she replied quietly. "But I wanted to."

He didn't say anything in return. He kept his eyes fixed on the clock, watching the second hand make its fragmentary way past numbers entirely unrelated to it, the realm of hours instead of moments. The clock was a bit more battered than it had been before, the thick glass covering its face now containing a deep crack that somehow hadn't shattered the glass. It had run fast before, but now it lost almost a minute every hour. It needed to be reset again.

There was a pause, then she said, "This wasn't your fault, you know."

"Don't. Just … don't." He held up a hand but still didn't look at her. He was silent a moment, then lowered his now slightly shaking hand and said, "I've got … things to do here. I'll keep in touch, let you know if we find anything."

"I'll keep looking too," she replied. He thought she'd left, but then he felt her hand resting on his shoulder. He didn't move for a moment, then covered her hand with his own and squeezed briefly. Then she pulled away and was gone.

* * *

 _He was lying alone on a hillside under a nighttime sky overrun with cascades of stars spilling across the void in patterns he didn't recognize. They seemed so close that surely he could reach up and thread his fingers through them, but he felt he shouldn't disturb them. He lay still and let his gaze slide from one star to the next, an infinity of suns blessing a myriad of worlds with light and life._

 _A warm breeze skimmed over him, bringing with it the faint sound of water sighing back and forth over a distant shore. He dreaded that sound, but resolutely turned his attention away from it. He knew this was an escape from inevitability, but he found it difficult to care. It was a moment of illusory peace, and he was more than willing to yield to it for however long it lasted._

 _He stirred his fingertips in the soft grass beneath him and smelled the crisp scent of fresh apples. He thought he felt a gentle hand slip into his, but when he closed his fingers, it was gone, only a phantom made of elusive memories. He felt the loss keenly, and the moment of serenity was disturbed, then shattered._

 _The irregular rhythm of waves gradually mutated into a susurrus that slowly rose in volume until it was a clamor of voices, accusing, pleading, cursing, yearning, hating, begging, grieving. A prismatic flush of color swept over the stars, and they flared brighter, expanded and erupted into torrents of flame reflecting the decimation of worlds, the fracturing of lives, the destruction of souls. The condemning force of a keening, frozen wind blasted the world around him and scoured him into nothing._

His body shuddered and convulsed, another riptide of blood dragging him relentlessly away from the brink of oblivion. Spasms tore through sinew and muscle and left him gasping, head feebly turning from side to side, eyes rolling and refusing to fix on any one point. Hands grabbed his shoulders, shook him hard until he was sure consciousness would be rattled out of him again.

The hands shifted to his head, held it still. "Wake up, damn you!" Spittle flew into his face, and the hands clenched, pressed hard, stilled the quaking of his mind. _She_ hovered over him, eyes anxious and angry, but then the strain constricting her features relaxed and she pulled back with a relieved smile.

She dropped heavily to her knees beside him, in precisely the same place she'd taken when they'd fed on his body, or at least the last time he remembered. Behind her he could see the other sisters, but they had shifted their positions from the previous time they'd allowed him to revive. One was sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa, one was leaning into the corner next to the window with her arms wound tightly around her chest, one had shoved herself as far as possible back into a chair and had her knees drawn up to her chest, one was standing behind the ladderback chair with her hands clutching the top slat, and one had her back to a window, her hair unbound and fluttering in the breeze. The moonlight behind her was brighter than it had been before, enough for him to make out the shapes of tall trees near to the cottage.

He wondered why he'd had such a different vision this time, more like a dream, a promise of something gentler, but then it had been shattered by such destruction, pain and suffering. Perhaps he was beginning to go mad. She'd been angry, desperate to wake him. He might well be slipping away entirely, whether mentally or physically or both, he wasn't sure.

He guessed the moon was near or at full, and he recalled that the new moon had just passed when he'd arrived on Earth, so approximately two weeks had gone by. His first reaction to that fact was relief and satisfaction to have some objective measure of time restored to him. That was followed by cold shock at the amount of time he'd been held captive by the Plasmavores, witless and wandering within his own mind, his sense of time dulled to the point of needing an external measure of its passage.

Then came the disturbing realization that his captors' mental and physical state had altered radically. Before they had been relaxed, their movements fluid, almost lazy. There had been a general feeling of satisfaction and eagerness, of having found something extremely pleasurable and desperately wanting more. They had seemed almost drunken, as if his blood and whatever sense they had of his life force had intoxicated them.

Now tension was thick in the air, with restlessness a palpable undercurrent. They looked haggard, formerly smooth faces showing lines of fatigue, their clothing rumpled, hair in disarray. Their bodies were rigid, quivering and twitching. If they had been inebriated before, now they seemed to be struggling in the throes of some kind of addiction. He had an uneasy feeling that might not be far from the truth.

She – he realized he now thought of her as _she_ , whereas the others were _they_ , indistinguishable to him – had regained her composure, although he thought she was treading a fine line between control and the abandoning of reason. "There now," she said in a voice that shook only slightly. "Much better. You will not escape from us that easily."

Had he nearly died, then? Had they miscalculated how close they could take him to death? Instead of pursuing that line of thought, though, he went in an entirely different direction. "Why are you doing this to yourselves?" he asked, his voice coming out in a whisper even though he hadn't intended it to. He wasn't quite sure why he was posing the question, and he wasn't certain he wanted to know the answer.

"What do you mean, 'doing to ourselves'?" she snapped as she tucked a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear. "It is you who are being done to." Before he could gather the words for a reply or even knew what he would say in response, she raised her eyebrows and nodded slightly in an expression of comprehension. "Ah. You think we are denying ourselves, not allowing our thirst to be slaked." That possibility hadn't actually occurred to him – he'd not thought beyond their killing him – but he didn't interrupt her to say so.

She gave a slight shrug, seeming nonchalant. "We do as we must. A life force as vast as yours should not be squandered." Then a frown creased her face as she added in a voice layered with awe and desire, "So much death there is in you as well, so much destruction and burning, the razing of worlds and obliteration of lives, stars bursting into wildfire, voices screaming betrayal and rage. Your pain and your guilt are extraordinarily powerful things, a heady mix in your mind and hearts, searing you in a way that fire cannot, ours for the taking."

He blinked several times in startled realization. Of course that's what it had been, that final part of his vision. All the destruction he had wrought, thinking he was in the right, making a sacrifice for the greater good, but what did that matter to those who bore the brunt of his actions? She'd said it was theirs for the taking. If only it were that simple, if only the guilt could be lifted away and the events that fired it be undone. He swallowed hard. He rarely let himself feel the fullness of the remorse because if he did, it would drive him to insanity. He had no choice but to go on, to turn his back and run, never risking more than an occasional backwards glance. His guilt would always be his, an indelible part of him.

There was something else being taken from him, though, something more than merely blood and breath, something vital in a different but no less important way. He wasn't sure what it was. He only knew that it had to stop. He needed to find a way out of here. "You have to let me go," he said and was surprised to hear himself speaking the thought aloud.

At first she flinched and frowned, probably startled by his seeming audacity, then she let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Oh, we will, when the proper time arrives. We will relinquish you to the fire that waits for you and whatever lies beyond."

"Someone will find us before that happens," he said, and managed to put a bit of conviction into the statement. "My friends will have been looking for me…" He trailed off. Two weeks. They'd had two weeks to find him. Why hadn't they?

"But they will not find you," she said, her voice heated and angrily triumphant. She grabbed his shoulders and heaved him up to a sitting position, the pressure of her hands setting off explosions of pain in his arms and the sudden movement making his head spin. He vaguely sensed one of her arms abruptly shifting to his back to hold him up while the other hand wrapped around his throat. He thought for a moment that she'd gone mad and was going to strangle him, but then her fingers pressed down on the wounds on the side of his neck, just hard enough to send a flash of white-hot pain up and into his brain, shocking it back into kilter.

She removed her hand from his neck and thrust a finger towards something against the wall beyond the foot of the bed. "Do you know what that is?" she demanded.

His eyes slid along a line of mismatched rectangular shapes stacked haphazardly against the wall – boxes or crates? What was so important about them? She impatiently nudged his head sideways towards the end of the stack furthest from the windows and pointed again. The door. Six-paneled. Some kind of dark wood. Closed, of course. Why would she be pointing the door out to him? Taunting him that he wouldn't be going through anytime soon? Or ever?

Then she pushed at the back of his head, directing his eyes downwards. There on the floor beside the door, tucked into the corner made by the wall and the crates, was a dark shape glittering with silver lights. He squinted to clear his blurred vision and the object came into sharper focus. The shape resolved into something akin to a truncated cone, and the lights settled into a pattern of crisscrossing lines running over every visible surface.

Thoughts slipped and slithered through his head, eluding him. The image fell out of focus and flashed lighter and darker in time with a renewed throbbing in his head. Sitting up like this, he couldn't even see straight for more than a handful of seconds, much less identify some obscure piece of machinery. "No, I don't know what that is," he said with a trace of irritation.

She pulled her arm out from behind his back and let him fall to the bed. Breath and thought abandoned him as his head bounced against the mattress and stars exploded across his vision. He almost blacked out, but then his lungs remembered how to function and the whirling sparks melted away.

She was leaning over him again, her eyes fierce. "That is a biophasic converter. Not only does it mask our biological signatures–"

"It sets up a field that partially absorbs the spectrum of light," he muttered in a voice bordering on slurring. "And nullifies heat radiating from within the field." He felt a flutter of satisfaction that he'd managed to rummage that up out of his jumbled brain. "We're invisible," he added. Just as the first Plasmavore had thought she was. He suppressed the urge to laugh. He was afraid it would be a strangled cackle of madness.

The Plasmavore smiled at him, a malicious upturning of her lips. "Yes, that is correct. It seems your mind is still relatively intact. Good. It is better that you are aware of what is happening to you. And better for you to know that your so-called _friends_ ," and she made the word a curse, "will never find you. _Never_."

Never. He'd once known what that meant, what it truly meant. Once, he would've laughed at being told something would never happen, because never and its kin forever were enormities that most creatures couldn't even begin to grasp. He'd known exactly what never and forever were, at their cold and devouring hearts, but he wasn't sure he still understood.

He was the one being devoured, moment by painful moment, but he didn't quite remember what a moment was any longer. Seconds and minutes and hours, every measure of time there was, were slipping one into the next with only the vaguest sense of time's passage. And then he did laugh, but he wasn't sure why.

His laughter angered her, and she sharply commanded her sisters to gather around him once again. Ice-cold dread silenced him as they leaned over him. Their fangs stabbed him mercilessly, savagely. He closed his eyes and bit his tongue until it bled to keep himself from crying out. But then the blood welling from his tongue slid to the back of his mouth. He gagged at the taste, barely managed to turn his head to spit it out before he choked. He stared at the stain it made on the sheet, then closed his eyes and let despair take him down into darkness.

* * *

It was another week before Jack saw Martha again. He'd called and asked her to stop by when she could. He wasn't sure why. They were still keeping each other posted through phone calls and text messages, but those contacts had become fewer and further between and now consisted solely of "still looking" phrased in varying ways. He supposed he just wanted someone else there who would understand. Martha was the only one he could turn to who knew the Doctor well enough to truly empathize.

She wasn't able to make her way to Cardiff until very late that night, after the rest of the team had gone home. She didn't say anything when she arrived, just walked over to him and leaned against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. They stood that way for a few minutes, then she began to cry. He rested his chin on the top of her head and desperately tried not to break down in tears himself, but it was a futile effort. His heart gave a painful lurch as he realized this was the first vestige of mourning, of giving up.

He held her even tighter, turning his face down to hers, and somehow they ended up kissing, hard, brutal, hungry kisses. He knew they both needed something to hold onto, and since there was nothing mentally, emotionally or spiritually reassuring at hand, only the physical was left.

Ever the voice of conscience, though, Martha pulled away after a moment and pressed one hand against his chest. Her voice trembled as she said, "We shouldn't do this. Ianto–"

"Doesn't understand what I'm feeling right now." He was annoyed, but not with her. At least he didn't think so. "And he doesn't own me," he added roughly.

"I know. But I can't." He wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that. She'd broken it off with Tom quite some time ago. Then he realized he honestly didn't need to know what he motivation was at that particular moment. He just accepted it, sighed, and gathered her back into a gentle embrace.

She didn't leave. They ended up sleeping together after all, but not in the carnal sense. They tangled themselves together in his bed, fully clothed even down to their shoes. Martha slept, anyway. Jack still couldn't. His more evolved physiology made it possible for him to go for a much longer time without deep sleep, but he was pushing the boundaries of that. There wasn't much he could do about it. Every time he tried to let himself fall asleep, he managed only a short period of rest before he jerked awake, overwhelmed by a sense of uncontrolled freefall. He didn't want to resort to drugging himself. That might make it too difficult to bring himself back to full alertness if something happened. Whatever that something might be. It wasn't going to be anything good. He couldn't delude himself on that count any longer.

He woke Martha up in the morning long before Ianto was due to arrive. Not that he cared what Ianto saw or what he thought – nothing had even happened – but he didn't want Martha to feel guilty based solely on appearances. He'd also probably have to have some kind of heart-to-heart with Ianto to avoid the wounded looks that would inevitably be directed his way. He really wasn't up to that right now.

He went down to the morgue after Martha left and pulled out the trays holding each of the Plasmavores' victims, one at a time. He carefully smoothed back their hair, made sure their bodies and faces were properly reposed, and straightened the sheets covering them. When he got to the one that had reminded him of the Doctor, though, he laid his hand on the door but didn't open it. After that, he sat on the floor and stared at nothing for a very long time.


	5. Reaping Death

Chapter 5 – "Reaping Death"

 _He was caught in a thundering torrent of stars, dragged and tossed violently about by conflicting fields of painfully fluxing gravity. His mind flailed, desperately fumbling for some fixed point with which to orient himself but finding nothing that did not crumble or shift or simply flee from his grasp._

 _Then all feeling ceased, his mind went still, and he opened his eyes to see his body lying below him, gaunt and wasted, half-open eyes staring up at him but seeing nothing. Six pools of shadow were gathered around him, their edges rippling uncertainly until the last breath shuddered from his body._

 _Then the shadows merged and were subsumed into a greater darkness that surged outwards, spreading rapidly across space, blotting out lives, consuming civilizations, swallowing entire planets. The lost were forsaken, the hopeless forsworn, the dying left in despair, and everywhere conquest, war, famine and death ran roughshod. He plummeted into that maelstrom of destruction and felt himself torn apart by the shrapnel of souls._

The torture of his body clawing itself back to life overwhelmed him. There was a struggle within him to wring the marrow out of his bones, to fill his veins with fluid. One heart ceased beating and the other fluttered frantically. His skin burned, desperately pulling water from the air faster than his body could absorb it. Moisture condensed and was soaked up by the sheets covering him and below him until they clung damply to him.

He lost all sense of himself for a moment, then awareness crashed back into a body quivering in the aftershock of its own violent restoration. His chest was heaving with deep, ragged breaths and his hearts, both functioning again, were hammering so hard he swore he could feel them bruising against his ribs.

His mind throbbed with echoes of death and destruction, blood and breaking bones, blast furnace waves of heat, screams and curses and desperate prayers, ground heaving and shivering to dust underfoot, madness and rage and unbridled violence. He blinked furiously as the images kept repeating in brutally vivid fragments that seemed so hideously real, as if he were looking at them with his physical eyes and not his memory. Nausea roiled his stomach, his limbs quivered, his breath stuttered. He felt as though he were poised on the edge of madness and frantically searched for some way to clear and calm his mind.

 _Breathe. One breath, slowly. Another. One more. Close your eyes. Reach out for the images, gather them, hold them fast. Look at them, steadily. Don't flinch. Those lives have not yet been lost. You would remember them. You would. They're not like the ones whose voices you heard before. This isn't your guilt haunting you. None of this has happened yet. It's still only a horrendous possibility. It can be stopped. You can stop it. Breathe. You're useless to yourself and everyone else who depends on you if you don't calm down. Breathe._

His body gradually responded to the surety of steady thoughts, although he had no idea where they'd come from. It was almost as if someone else were speaking directly into his mind, although he didn't think that was truly the case. More likely, some part of him was managing to remain objective and calm despite being faced with enormous adversity. He clung to that elusive part, not sure how much longer it could last.

Aching hearts slowed, burning lungs relaxed, composure returned. He'd been an idiot not to think beyond stopping the slew of killings in Cardiff. There was so much more at risk, so much hinging on what happened here. What he'd seen was what would come to pass if the Plasmavores went free and invariably moved on to pursue other prey. Or so he thought. It was possible, wasn't it? What other explanation could there be? It didn't matter that there were only six of them. It only took a single soul to spark a flame that could be fueled into an inferno. The Plasmavores might not even intend to do anything beyond assuaging their own hunger. Something as simple as the untimely demise of one of their future victims could strip something crucial from the fabric of the universe and unleash a cascade of ruin across time and space.

They couldn't be allowed to leave here. That was a patent and unassailable fact. It was so clear to him now. Whatever it took to keep them from walking out of this place unhindered, free to pursue their own wants and will, he would do. And he'd have to do it alone. He could no longer hold on to hope of rescue from the outside. Nor could he trust to others to capture the Plasmavores after they'd finished with him. The rapid swelling of the darkness in his vision suggested there'd be little time for anyone to stop them before they'd done something that couldn't be undone.

He had precious few resources available to him here, but there had to be something he could do, some unlikely option with at least a small chance of success. As much as he might want hold on to the belief that he could reason with them, he knew the effort would be futile. They couldn't be rationalized out of what they were. They would go on killing to live and living to kill. That was an essential part of their nature, all but impossible to deny.

A handful of heartbeats thudded painfully in his chest before he had to face the inevitable. There was only one way to ensure the Plasmavores wouldn't go on to pursue the murder of others. He'd have to bring their own deaths down upon them. Such a solution didn't sit at all well with him – it was an action he considered to be an absolute last resort – but he didn't see any other choice, and the stakes were too high to ignore.

Then _she_ suddenly loomed over him. He flinched and began to hyperventilate, the accompanying spill of adrenalin into his system causing his muscles to spasm and twitch, his head jerking involuntarily to the side. He lay there panting, angrily willing himself to back to calm, horrified at how fragile his self-control had become.

He breathed deeply, staring across the room. The windows were closed, the curtains pulled. He could hear rain pattering against the panes. No light visible in the slight gaps between the curtains. Nothing to tell him the passage of time.

He felt abruptly forlorn and abandoned in an essential part of himself, his link to the ebb and flow of stars and void and moments and ages stretched to an unraveling thread. They'd held him too long just a whisper away from the boundaries of death. It didn't really matter what happened to him over the coming hours, though. His eyes shifted back to her. Nothing mattered but her and her sisters and what must be done.

She'd settled to the floor next to him, sitting cross-legged this time instead of kneeling. She looked exhausted, her eyes rimmed with red and shadowed underneath, a sickly grayish cast to her skin, but she was free now of the quivering need that had possessed her before. She looked at him expectantly, but he had no idea what she wanted him to say or do. He ignored her for the moment, his attention drifting back to the windows. There was something missing…

"Where are the others?" he asked. It was difficult to form the words. His lips and tongue felt cold and numb despite the feverish heat running through his body. At least he thought it was fever. Maybe he was just imagining it, the fire and burning from his terrible premonition convincing him he was feeling heat that wasn't really there.

"Your existence is almost bled dry," she said tiredly, matter-of-factly. "Only the dregs are left. My sisters have gone to wash away the bitterness of your blood." She paused and he flicked his eyes back towards her to see a malicious smile gradually curving her lips. "They seek fresh blood, a cleansing of the palate, before they drink of you again."

He swallowed against nausea at her choice of words. So they'd returned to the hunt. More lives forfeit, more blood on his hands. How was he supposed to stop it, divert the disastrous consequences he'd seen when he could barely move his own body, much less prevent the Plasmavores from doing whatever they desired? Something twisted inside of him, unleashing a hollow and desolate ache. The resolve of only a few moments before faltered. He was utterly helpless, barely able to sense his place in the universe, much less alter it.

He drew in a painful and shuddering breath and turned his head away from her, back towards the ceiling. He exhaled shakily as his eyelids slid closed. A handful of tears trickled from the outside corners of his eyes and ran down his temples.

"Do you weep for your own death?" she asked with what seemed to be concern, but he decided it was insincere.

"No. Only for the lives you've already taken. For the ones you'll kill after me." He slowly opened his eyes and felt another set of tears follow after the first. She swiped at them with her thumb, and his eyes automatically tracked her hand as she raised it to her lips.

She sucked the moisture from her skin, sighing with pleasure as she closed her eyes. "Almost as succulent as blood."

Disgust and hatred shifted briefly in him, but they were short-lived and fleeting, lost under a rising tide of guilt and regret. Failing to find a way to bring an end to the Plasmavores here and now would make him just as accountable as they for the ruin that would come afterwards.

He flinched as she idly stroked a hand across the top of his chest, shoulder to shoulder. He wanted to scream in frustration at the uncontrollable reactions of his weakened body, but what would be the point in that? It wouldn't make him any stronger.

She rose to her knees and looked at him with a deceptively gentle expression on her face as she shifted her fingers to rest below his ear and gently rubbed her thumb back and forth across his cheek. He had to fight the urge to bite her and was vaguely sickened that he even wanted to. It was a base and animal reaction. Was that all that was left to him?

"Your suffering will soon be ended," she said quietly, her features softening into something like sympathy, but he was certain it was only a mockery of any remotely gentle emotion. "We have glutted ourselves on the feast of your life. Your time is nearly run. When my sisters return, we will taste the essence of your death, drink the last burning drops of your lifeblood."

His mind instinctively caught at a handful of her words. _Essence of death. Last burning drops of lifeblood._ There was something in that, a flicker of dark and desperate hope. He wouldn't die, at least not right away. He'd regenerate first.

 _Just step back … do as I say and get back … you know what happens next._

 _Stay away … every cell in my body's dying … it's a way of cheating death._

Or a way of _bringing_ death if someone stood too close to him. If he regenerated while they were feeding on him, kneeling beside him, touching him, they'd all burn in the energy release. A wild and terrible joy filled him and shook his sanity for a moment. He felt a macabre smile twisting his lips. "I'm going to kill you, you know," he said calmly.

She sat back, frowned at him in disbelief, then raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "I do believe your mind has become unhinged. You cannot lift so much as a finger against us." She reached out and demonstrated the truth of her words by pulling his hand up off the bed and then releasing it, watching with amusement as it flopped back down beside him. He barely kept himself from laughing at her. It was exactly that impending breakdown of his body that was going to be the undoing of her and her sisters.

She leaned over him and placed her hands firmly on his shoulders, pushing him down against the mattress, her face hovering inches from his own. Yet again he reacted automatically, trying to shrink away from her, but he wasn't as bothered by the involuntary response this time. It didn't matter what his body did at the moment, or even his mind for that matter. He didn't need to do anything more than let them kill him. There was a warped kind of relief in the thought.

"You are ours," she said stonily, her eyes filled with certainty. "You will die. We will walk away and leave the shell of your body behind." Then yet another of her damned smiles lifted her lips and brightened her eyes before she lowered her head still further, her lips grazing across his temple and down the side of his face. "But there is one small matter to attend to before that moment arrives. There is still slightly more life left in you than can be consumed all at once, even by the six of us together. My sisters do not share my taste for the lees of life and have gladly left you to me for this small space of time before you die," she whispered into his ear. "I will relish every drop."

As she slowly sank her fangs into his neck, something inside of him gibbered in primitive fear. For a moment he thought she'd set herself into a vein, but then he felt the swift, hot release of blood and realized with a rush of aberrant relief that she'd chosen an artery this time. At least it would be quick. That bitter comfort carried him down into darkness.

* * *

 _An ocean of stars flared out of the darkness, their liquid light gently shimmering for a moment before churning and heaving and then speeding towards him in an unexpectedly violent wave of blinding brilliance frothed with blue and gold and red fire. He instinctively flung his arms over his head and face, absurdly trying to protect himself. Flames poured over and around him, and he screamed as his muscles tensed in anticipation of his body being scorched into nothing._

 _Then the heat abruptly vanished and he was blasted with an icy wind that sang sharply past one exposed ear and burned the back of his hand where it fisted into the hair on the top of his head. The frigid air whipped around him for several long moments and then fled into sudden stillness. He breathed a halting sigh of relief, then lowered his arms and straightened himself slowly back to his full height, blinking as the afterimages of furious stars faded to reveal a wasteland of white._

 _Smooth snow crusted the ground in a frozen plain spreading undisturbed all the way to a barely perceptible horizon. The sky was bleached to the palest grey, a dull expanse unrelieved by cloud or sun or moon. It was a negative image of what he'd seen before, the dark and silent ocean under a starless sky. That had been nothing more than a vision, though. This was something entirely different. He could feel that this place actually existed, although it felt like some kind of abstract reality, as if his mind were providing concrete images to represent something that had no true physical form._

 _He realized he was afraid of it. It had a pervasive sense of something so contrary to the natural order of things that it made him tremble physically, mentally and emotionally. He shouldn't be here. Not yet. He wasn't meant to linger here. Not ever. His presence in this frozen wilderness was defilement and blasphemy, or as near to them as a godless people could be said to have. They'd had gods once, though, hadn't they? Or so it was said. Dark gods lost in the Dark Times._

 _He stood in apprehensive silence, ice and snow bleeding cold into his feet. He watched his breath swirling fog into the air, and even that slight disturbance seemed an effrontery. This place was always and never, anywhere and everywhere and nowhere. It should not even be possible for him to be here. Something was being twisted awry within himself, but he wasn't sure what it was or what it meant._

 _A sound gradually worked its way into his awareness, a high, distant song whose mournful notes stirred dread in him, inhuman voices singing of something foretold, something inevitable that never would be. Something was broken, undone, torn apart, lost._

 _The song ended, the world dissolved, and the shadows seethed and waited._

There was pain, but it was distant, deadened by an extremity of exhaustion. A surge of heat ran swiftly through his body, setting off a panicked struggle to breathe. The pressure of hands on his shoulders forced the spasms of his lungs to cease. There was something _wrong_ with him, something deep, something missing. Something he desperately needed for more than only his own sense of wholeness, but he couldn't quite fathom what it was.

Voices slithered into his awareness. He found he couldn't open his eyes, so he listened, catching at each word as a lifeline to keep him from slipping away.

"Why does he not awaken?"

He was broken, maybe beyond all of hope of being mended.

"Death holds him in her hands, begins to weave her sleep over him. There is no need for concern. She will relinquish him back to us one more time. His body and blood are ours. Only his soul belongs to her."

There would be nothing to be salvaged, nothing to be saved.

"Such poetry in you. You always were unaccountably interested in the illusions spewed forth by dying minds. What did you see this time then? I hardly think he could concoct anything more chaotic and violent than last time. I think his sanity is stretched thin."

Was that what was wrong with him? Had he finally gone mad? Perhaps, but there was something more important than that, something he'd lost, something critical, essential to what he still had to do.

"No. His mind is still strong. I was thrown back. I was not able to follow him."

A blast of bitter cold wind and a timeless, unchanging expanse of desolation.

"And yet you tried. You should not have risked pushing him so far. You might have ended him. That is not for you alone to do."

He realized there were only two voices. Four were missing. The end was not yet here.

"I am eldest. You have no right to question me."

A stray memory stirred. He'd been right about the source of her authority. Nothing but a vastly unimportant detail. He needed answers to more critical questions. Something missing, something wrong…

"Did you do as I instructed?" The eldest again. _Her._

"Of course. Although I do not understand the need." Petulant impatience.

"He is a rarity like none we have ever encountered before and likely never will again. Such singularity demands at least a token of respect."

The brief touch of fingers on his face, a prickling ghost of sensation.

"Respect? Have you forgotten why we are here, the crime he committed?"

Murder, or so it was in their blinded eyes. And now he had to do the same to them. Unease shifted in him. He'd had a plan to do so, but there was a flaw in it. Something had changed.

"How dare you imply that I have lost sight of our purpose?"

"I did not–"

"Enough. You will assist me."

He felt the sheet covering him unexpectedly being drawn aside, not slowly as it had been before, but quickly, efficiently. This was different. Blood would not flow, not yet.

There was something moving over his legs and then around his waist. His upper body was abruptly hauled up off the bed. Pain hammered in his head and a rushing sound grew in his ears. He vaguely felt his head lolling back until it was pushed forward to rest with his chin on his chest.

Now something was being pulled up his arms, over his shoulders. He realized they were dressing him. It even felt as though they'd washed his clothing – the fabric was soft, not stiff with dried blood. Why were they bothering to do that? Oh. A token of respect. Another twist in her perverted psyche. Then he was lowered back to the bed, and his head gave one final, explosive throb that blasted him back into oblivion.

* * *

 _He was standing on crimson grass under a saffron sky, daylight slowly fading to night. A familiar hill rose above him, and he set his feet on the upwards path. He knew what waited there, on the crest of the hill, and it frightened him – the Untempered Schism, the rawness of time and space that gazed without mercy into the souls of those who would be Time Lords. He shouldn't be here. Not like this. He'd faced this long ago. Hadn't he? There was something he needed to see…_

 _Anxiety made him tremble, and expectation swirled with dread as he steeled himself to look. He closed his eyes, stepped forward, his hearts pounding, his hands fisting by his sides. He stood breathing deeply for several long moments, then wrenched his eyes open. He blinked, allowing his eyes to focus, waited for something to appear in the circle of simply adorned metal. It remained empty. There was nothing there but a void, the complete and utter absence of time and space, of existence itself._

 _He staggered backwards, shaking his head, terror and panic rising up inside him before being abruptly swept aside as understanding crashed over him. The frozen wilderness. He knew now what it was and how he'd come to be there. He'd been pushed too far and the thread had snapped, casting him into the infinitesimal moment before regeneration, where life and death stood balanced and cancelled each other out. That moment was meant to be fleeting, registering only as a pinprick in his mind as he passed into regeneration. But he had stood there, inside an impossible possibility. There were consequences for doing what should not, must not be done. His connection to Time had been warped and broken, utterly and irrevocably._

 _He stumbled and fell to his knees, wrapped clutching hands around himself, rocked back and forth in denial. He was going to die, but it would be only once more and final. Severed from Time, he wouldn't regenerate. The Plasmavores would live. He had no means left with which to kill them, no way to stop the darkness from flooding out into the universe._

 _He leaned over and in an uncontrolled spate of agony and fury beat his fists against the ground until his hands and forearms throbbed and nerves sparked pain from fingertips to shoulders, across his neck and down into his back. Finally he stilled, his breath coming hard and fast and his eyes blurred with tears that pattered gently down onto his clenched fists._

 _His skin was smeared with something red. He realized he'd beaten the grass to a crimson pulp, and now his hands looked as if they were soaked with blood. He spread his fingers and stared and remembered._

… _All that is left is to taste the essence of your death, drink the last burning drops of your lifeblood…_

 _The solution was there, although not in the way he had first understood it. His literal blood was the key. Under his control while it remained within. His to do with as he would before they took it from him. The answer came to him in a moment of brutal clarity. He would turn his own body into a distillery of poison, brew death in himself to be passed on to them. It was a perfect and simple solution. Perfectly, simply drawn from their own lust for his blood._

 _He squeezed his eyes shut as relieved anguish flood through him. He choked out a sob, then began to laugh. Hysterical, crazed laughter. He felt as though he was finally, without any doubt, going insane, but if this was insanity, it was … abhorrently glorious. He laced his fingers behind his neck and bent forwards until his forehead touched the ground, the laughter strangled into heaving breaths that dragged him down into darkness._

Again there was pain, but it was blunted to an unfamiliar degree, little more than a persistent, muffled throbbing compared to what had gone before. There was something sharp being pressed into the bed of one of his fingernails, and what felt like strong fingertips – no, knuckles – were being forcefully rubbed up and down the middle of his chest. They were trying to rouse him and being very persistent about it. The time had come and their patience was spent.

For a few moments, he blithely ignored their continued attempts to bring some sort of reaction from his body. He remained still and silent with a force of will and purpose that dwarfed theirs by a blinding magnitude. They simply wanted revenge. His purpose was salvation bought with blood and suffering and death. Voices rose out of his memory, his own, others, warning him, condemning him, urging him on.

" _Do you know what they call me in the ancient legends of the Dalek homeworld? The Oncoming Storm."_

" _Never forget, Doctor. You did this! I name you, forever. You are the Destroyer of Worlds!"_

" _I don't need anyone." … "Yes, you do. Because sometimes, I think you need someone to stop you."_

There was no one to stop him now.

He turned his senses inward, concentrating on the straightforward certainty of biology and chemistry. He had to work quickly. He'd been pushed to his limits, so close to breaking down entirely. It would have been so much easier to do this after he'd first awoken, but it hadn't even occurred to him. He'd been holding on to the hope that he wouldn't be forced into murder. No one had come to rescue him, though, and his admonition to Jack not to appoint himself judge, jury and executioner now seemed faint and hollow, a luxury he himself could no longer afford.

Driven and guided by equal parts deliberation, instinct and desperation, he forced his body to shred and remake itself in a different way than it had done to save him, to replenish his blood. This time he was seeking death instead of life. Cells spilled out their hoarded resources, molecular chains were undone and rewoven, existing compounds were broken down, metabolized, and fused again.

He dimly noted that his body was beginning to respond to the painful stimuli being applied by the Plasmavores, his fingers twitching, breath quickening. No time left. He managed a final, quick analysis of what he'd done. It was a rough and dirty job, crudely fatal, yet subtle enough that the Plasmavores wouldn't be able to taste the poison and thus pull away from him before ingesting a lethal dose. It probably wouldn't even cause them much pain.

He had no way of knowing how the poison would affect him given his current condition, but that didn't really matter. He might die, he might not. What would be, would be. For whatever span of life remained to him, Time would carry him forward as it did any other living creature, with no recognition or regard for what he had been. He was nothing more than a grain of sand, a sliver of ice, a part of the darkness between the stars. But he had done what needed to be done.

His body twisted of its own accord, trying to escape the pain being inflicted on it. He dragged in a deep lungful of breath and let it out in a long, low moan. He hurt, in every way possible.

He found he could open his eyes this time, his vision swimming into vague clarity. _She_ was there, they were there, encircling him, poised to end him. The others wore expressions of cold determination and contempt, but her eyes were glassy and there were spots of reddish color on her cheeks. She looked strangely sad. Was it because this obscene dance of life and death, pain and suffering was drawing to an end? Was she disheartened because she'd failed to follow him into the place where she'd so wantonly forced him, seeking intimate and fantastic knowledge of a life's essence that awed and bewildered her? Did she actually feel some kind of regret or remorse for what they'd done to him, for what she'd done to him?

She'd said he deserved respect, but what did that matter? It was too late for any kind of redemption. Scars on top of scars.

She reached out and brushed the hair away from his forehead, much as Jack had done to the body of that poor woman who had been their first victim. A fitting gesture. He would be their last.

She gave him one last, lingering glance as she said gently, "Farewell. I will remember you." He stared back at her, feeling nothing but a strange sort of completion. It was nearly over. Then her mask of indifference slipped back into place and she turned to her sisters.

"Our trial is at an end," she said slowly and clearly, a ringing note of triumph in her voice. "Our mother's death shall now be avenged."

He wanted to close his eyes, but he had to deny himself that comfort. He couldn't turn away. That was the price to be paid for invoking death. To face what he'd done and if, beyond fate and chance, he somehow survived, always to remember.

Fingers pressed against his limbs, finding arteries, but then moving slightly away from those locations. There would be no quick release into death for him. She likewise shifted away from the artery in his neck, relegated this time to taking only an equal share of his blood along with her sisters. One life divided into six potions of judgment and revenge. There were so many thousands of others who could have claimed the same rights. He'd been bleeding for so long.

Their bites slid through clothing into flesh, just as they had in the alleyway, a warped circle completing itself. There was no pain. Perhaps it wasn't an endless well after all.

Then the soporific entered his bloodstream, and it burned. It hadn't done that before, only brought vertigo and queasiness and sent his thoughts spinning. He struggled to understand why it was different this time.

The poison he'd created to kill them. The soporific was interacting with it. He should've anticipated that. Too late now. The blood was already draining out of him. If they felt the same acid sting that he did, he could only hope they would be so absorbed by their triumph over him and their relief at finally being quit of him that they wouldn't notice, or if they did feel it, that they would dismiss it as some lingering taint in his blood.

He didn't have to wait long. The poison was every bit as potent as he had intended, but not as humane as he had hoped due to the mixture with their own soporific. Instead of slipping quietly into death, they ripped their fangs away from him with gasps and strangled cries of pain. Their suffering was brutal and unforgiving, gagging and contorting them. His muscles tensed as he watched, his hearts lurching, his head aching, his breathing shallow and quick. He hadn't wanted it to be like this, in oh so many ways.

His attention was drawn abruptly and entirely to her as she grasped his shoulder, fingernails desperately digging into his flesh. "What have you done to us?" she choked out. Her lips and teeth were stained with the brightness of his blood, but her own blood, such a dark red that it was almost black, was dribbling out of the corner of her mouth.

He looked directly into her wide and frightened eyes. He couldn't deny what he'd done in any way. "Killed you," he replied simply, his voice much steadier than he felt. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to hurt."

Then her eyes rolled back, her body convulsed, and her blood gurgled from her mouth. Her hand gripped him so tightly that he was certain the imprint of her fingers would be left on his skin forever. Then she released him and her body slumped to the floor to lie with her sisters.

He finally allowed himself to close his eyes. He let their death wash over and through him, scouring him out and leaving a hollow emptiness behind.


	6. Through the Ashes

Chapter 6 – "Through the Ashes"

Some uncertain time later – it couldn't have been very long because there wasn't yet any stink of rotting death – the Doctor opened his eyes. He listened to the silence, empty of all living presences save his own, devoid of the sense of being watched by anything other than his own conscience, and thankfully that had been shocked into muteness for the time being.

The toxin was still clawing through him, searing his veins, clutching at his brain, making him dizzy and nauseous. He was astonished it hadn't killed him too, especially with the interaction of the soporific added in. But by some quirk of fate, he was left with his life intact. He should probably make an effort to save it, even though part of him just wanted to rest and let this end. He wasn't sure what he could make of himself without his connection to Time, but he would leave that question for later. He needed to live in the now. He had no other choice.

He knew he wouldn't be able to purge the poison entirely from his body, but with some determination, an exertion almost beyond him in his current state, he was able to cause it to settle, coagulate and adhere to the inner surfaces of blood vessels, settle into the chambers of his heart like sediment.

After that, he lay breathing shallowly, hearts thudding slowly. He stared at the ceiling, at the play of shadow and sunbeams dancing lightly over cracked plaster. The light was an effrontery. It should be nighttime, without a moon, with only the stars to shine their cold and bitter judgment. No matter the necessity, he'd brought death to others yet again.

After some time, the will to move stirred in him, feebly but persistently. _Run. Don't look back._ A drumbeat in his mind. But he needed to find some means within himself to make it possible because will alone was not enough this time.

Adrenalin was the most obvious solution, but it was a blunt force approach and he wasn't sure his body could handle the resultant stress right now. Not to mention that all it had done when it had flooded his system before, when she'd startled him after his vision of now blessedly averted death and destruction, was make his muscles spasm uselessly.

He could try to directly stimulate triglyceride metabolism, but it would probably take some time to produce sufficient glucose to give him the energy he needed. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Time was the one thing he didn't have in his possession any longer, but he'd been granted more than enough of it since he was alone here with no one living to disturb him.

He closed his eyes and managed to concentrate on his biological functions long enough to set off the required process, fortunately not needing to attend to it further once it had begun. He didn't think he had enough presence of mind at the moment to sustain that kind of focus. He let his mind drift aimlessly for a nebulous span of time before he felt a stirring of rough vigor in his body. A while longer, and it was enough for him to drag himself slowly to a sitting position, the room seeming to tilt as his head throbbed in time with the pounding of his hearts.

He'd been lying down for far too long, and although the Plasmavores hadn't had the opportunity this time to critically drain him of blood, it had still been enough to noticeably affect him. His body didn't seem to be interested in immediately replenishing what he'd lost. His marrow had been nearly depleted, so maybe his body was hoarding its resources against a future need.

He concentrated on breathing in and out until the room settled around him, noticing that as he had suspected, he'd been fully redressed with all his clothing but his coat. Even his tie had been knotted around his neck again. Respect. He didn't deserve it, not after what he'd done to them. He thrust the thought aside. For now.

He laboriously swung his legs to the side and over the edge of the bed. The bed was low to the floor, and his feet thumped awkwardly against the hardwood surface, fortunately landing in between two of the bodies so he didn't have to look directly at them as he attempted to heave himself up from the bed. With nothing to hold onto and his balance uncertain, all he managed was to throw himself forwards to land on his hands and knees. His arms locked and held, but his legs folded underneath him. He remained crouched like that for a few minutes, wanting desperately to lay himself down on the floor and rest, but he knew if he didn't keep moving, he'd never make it out of this place. He needed to put some distance between himself and what had transpired here, if only for his own sanity. His body might be beyond help, but he didn't want to die with his reason shredded to bits.

Finally he managed to gather the strength to push himself back up onto his knees and begin to crawl forward, although slowly and with considerable stiffness and the exhausted trembling of abused arms and legs. He didn't waste any energy trying to hold his head up, just angled himself towards the stack of crates he recalled from earlier, thinking he could use their staggered surfaces to pull himself to his feet.

As he went, he began to feel some unseen force pressing against him, getting stronger the further he went. By the time he reached the pile of crates, steadily cycling vibrations were thrumming through his entire body, the sensation painful and soothing at the same time. He allowed himself to relax into it for a moment as he rested his head against the side of the bottommost crate and took several deep breaths.

His face felt flushed and feverish, but his hands were cold, and so were his feet, despite the thick socks and sturdy Chucks. The rest of his body simply ached with pains ranging from sharp to half-numbed, some of them having nothing to do with the injuries inflicted on him by the Plasmavores but caused by lying too long on his back. He doubted they'd bothered to shift his body any more than they had needed to get access to his veins and arteries. His bones felt empty, scraped out, and although he wasn't completely dehydrated, his body didn't seem to be pulling moisture from the air any longer.

He raised his head and pushed himself back to sit on his knees, blinking up at the seeming mountain of splintered wood he'd have to drag himself up in order to get to his feet. Maybe he shouldn't even try. But then his eyes fell on a corner of dark brown fabric hanging over the edge of the top crate. His coat. It must be. Somehow that seemed worth expending the energy to stand up. It was something they had cast aside, apparently unworthy of their notice. It had probably remained relatively untouched by them. He needed that.

Slowly and carefully, he pulled himself up, arms shaking and fingernails digging into age-softened wood. Every time he raised himself up a bit more in elevation, a roaring sound rose in his ears and shadows and sparks whirled in front of his eyes, but hearing and vision stubbornly cleared each time until he was completely upright.

He laid his hands on the familiar, worn softness of the coat, realizing as he did so that although he could probably manage to pick it up despite the trembling of his hands, he wouldn't be able to put it on, and he certainly couldn't manage to carry it out of here. He had a certain fondness for it. It was a part of him in a way. In this incarnation, he'd worn various suits, different shirts, different ties, multiple pairs of Chucks, but only this one coat, and he'd worn it practically every time he'd left the TARDIS since his last regeneration. He'd have to leave it here, one more piece of himself left behind.

As he stood there in numb silence, he realized the strange, humming oscillations of energy were still present. They were making his head throb unpleasantly in time with their rise and fall. He really didn't want to get any closer to whatever was causing them, but the source was between himself and the door, so he had no choice but to leave the coat where it was and sidle along the crates, his hands running over the coarse wood to steady himself. He looked over the edge of the stack and saw the strange object spangled with glittering lights that she'd pointed out to him earlier. His memory of what she'd told him was clouded. He couldn't remember what the thing was, but he knew there was something important about it.

A thought skittered across his mind, and he grabbed at it, barely managed to snag it. Biophasic converter. He needed to shut it down, but he couldn't quite remember why. He couldn't think properly beyond momentary spurts of purpose. Maybe the poison had affected his mind, caused some kind of brain damage. Or maybe it was just the effects of complete and utter exhaustion. He hoped it was the latter, but there was no point in worrying about it now.

He slowly sank down to his knees, his hands pressing against the crates, thankfully giving him enough leverage to keep himself from tumbling to the floor. He paused a moment, unsure of how to proceed, and his hand strayed automatically to the inner pocket of his jacket. His fingers fumbled over the frames of his glasses, then rested on his sonic screwdriver. He wondered why it was still there. Maybe it had been replaced as part of her show of respect, or perhaps they hadn't deemed such a small frippery of technology to be worthy of their keeping.

He pulled the sonic out and stared at it, trying to figure out which setting he would need to deactivate the converter, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. He supposed he could try random settings until he found something that worked, but he didn't particularly want to sit here for the hours that might take, and he very well might inadvertently cause the converter to explode or do something else equally detrimental. He slipped the sonic back into his pocket and went for the direct approach.

He reached out with his right hand towards a small access panel and managed to wedge his fingertips under the edge. He pulled as hard as he could, but it wouldn't budge. He braced his other hand against the side of the converter and tried again. This time the panel snapped off. He let it fall to the floor, then reached into the opening and pulled out the pulsating cylinder of light he found inside. He belatedly realized that it was blazingly hot and dropped it, but his hand had already been burned.

A strangled cry was wrenched out of him, and he huddled over his hand, but the pain quickly receded into a dull sense of pulsating heat. It was almost as if his body had been tried to the point of losing its ability to feel pain properly. Then it occurred to him that if the power cylinder was hot enough to burn skin, it might set fire to the floor. He frantically cast his eyes about to see where it had landed.

He located the power module a few feet away, but its light had faded. There was a bit of smoke floating in the air around it and he could smell scorched wood, but apparently the heat had very quickly dissipated.

As he stared and wondered at the combination of the bad luck of a burned hand and the good fortune of the building not bursting into flames around him, he noticed the converter emitting a low-pitched hum accompanied by a whine higher in tone that was gradually descending to meet the lower note. He turned and watched as the lights faded, flickered softly, and then went out entirely. A faint clicking sound stuttered into silence. It was done. Or undone. He swayed a bit and tried to decide which, or both, or neither. He wondered why he'd even bothered deactivating it. He didn't think it would prevent him from leaving. Something about keeping him from being found. Didn't matter. He just wanted to get out of here. Then he could rest.

He found he couldn't immediately stand again. He'd have to crawl for the moment. He'd need both hands for that, so he clumsily unknotted and pulled off his tie, wrapping it as securely as he could around his burned hand. At least it wasn't a third degree burn, just on the moderate side of second from what he could judge by looking at it.

He curled his fingers over the injury and pressed his fist against the floor next to his other hand, its fingers spread wide and palm flat on the floor. Then he leaned forward and straightened his back and legs enough to be able to move. The door fortunately hadn't been completely shut the last time it had been used, so he was able to slip his hand into the gap between door and frame and nudge the opening wide enough to escape the room. Then he crept through the house without looking at anything other than the scuffed hardwood floor beneath his sliding hands and scraping knees.

When he reached the front door – or maybe it was the back door, a way out of the house in any event – he pushed himself up to sit on his knees, then shuffled around until he was situated to the side of the door so he would be out of the way when it swung in. There was no key in the lock, but he tried the handle anyway and was mildly surprised to hear the latch click open. But then there wouldn't have been any reason to lock the door, would there? His mind couldn't quite gather up the bits of information it would need to figure the whys and wherefores, but what was the point in trying to understand? The door was unlocked so he pushed it fully open.

Cool, fresh air rushed over him, the gentle touch of it on his face and running through his hair soothing away some of his weariness. He caught a glimpse of a pleasant green wood and a dirt path leading away from the cottage before he sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against the doorframe. He could hear running water in the distance, gentle gurgling and splashing suggesting some sort of small stream. It was a hypnotically enticing sound. If he only he could get that far, he could lay himself down on the bank, maybe look up into the trees and imagine their leaves were silver. Then whatever would come, would come.

The relief of resignation combined with the giddiness of a small taste of freedom made him feel as though he could stand again. He clutched at the doorframe as he pulled himself up, but the small flicker of euphoria was snuffed out by sudden awareness of heat flaring and receding under his skin. He hadn't noticed it before the contrast of the cooler outside air made it evident. He paused and frowned, his limbs briefly spasming with the pain of inflamed puncture wounds. He realized many of the wounds were badly infected. His body had been so savaged and overtaxed that only a few of the bites had healed properly. He doubted his immune system was functioning very well if at all. A considerable portion of it had been repeatedly ripped almost completely out of his body along with his blood.

He dragged in a shuddering breath. Part of him wanted to fall down right there and weep, for what he wasn't entirely sure, anything or everything or nothing, but it was a small part of him. The rest of him was obstinately determined to do nothing more than get to the water. Block out the pain of his body and hold on to the sheer bloody-mindedness of the rest.

He set out with staggering footsteps and somehow managed not to fall between the cottage and the first tree next to the path. After that, he lurched from tree to tree, pausing to catch his breath and steady his balance at each one. At some point he found a sturdy branch that had fallen from one of the trees and was leaning against its trunk, and he took that in his uninjured hand to help prevent him from falling in the precarious gaps between the surety of the trees.

He was tempted more than once to sink down at the foot of any given tree or to collapse in the spaces between, but dogged persistence kept him going down the path. He needed to do something because _he_ wanted to do it, damn the reasons or rationale.

He didn't know how long it took him to get to the place where the footpath turned to follow along the edge of the stream. The only measure he had was the light slanting through the trees, the angle of the shifting sunbeams as they shone through the fluttering leaves indicating the march of the sun across the sky. Dusk was falling now. Cool breezes that had been a blessing to a body heated by exertion and fever were now becoming a curse as the temperature began to drop. He wished he'd found a way to put his coat on instead of leaving it behind. Too late now.

He looked down the slope to the rippling water, its surface reflecting the indirect light still reaching it in an unsteady, glittering pattern. It mesmerized him. He leaned towards it and found himself tumbling down the incline and stopping face down just shy of the edge of the creek, his limbs splayed and his unburnt hand splashing into the water. New aches were added to the confused clamor of pain throughout his body, and he struggled to take a ragged breath.

He lay still, panting, his cheek pressed against a patch of moss, and stared as the shallow water lapped over his hand. It felt distant, not a part of himself, but with some effort, he was able to use the hand to bring a small drink to his mouth with awkwardly cupped fingers. The cold water stung his dry and split lips, but it was pure bliss to his parched mouth and throat.

He reached his hand out once again and managed to pull it back to him despite the growing tremor running from his fingers all the way up his arm. One more sip, then he let his hand rest on damp earth flecked with twigs and small stones. He didn't have the strength to move any further or even turn himself over. It didn't matter. He knew the leaves in the trees above weren't silver. There was no point in pretending, not really. Just another scar upon flesh made of nothing but scars. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath. His mind wandered into memories.

 _Earth, shining blue and green and fluttered with white. Her moon, blanched and cratered, cold and silent. Other worlds of every color imaginable, with skies and moons and suns to match. The Ood Sphere, burdened by slavery and lifted by liberty, with a persistent song transcending them all. Midnight, diamond-hard and coldly beautiful, harboring an unnameable fear. Malcassairo, humanity clinging to life and the hope of Utopia, despite the universe in its death throes all around them. Messaline and his daughter-that-wasn't, until he'd heard her two hearts. Gallifrey, red and orange and silver, and a dark and endless void._

 _There were faces too, smiling, angry, bewildered, afraid, loving and tender, hating and fierce. Rose, soft eyes and softer smiles, desperate eyes, weeping eyes, eyes blazing with the light of creation. Jack, wrong, oh so wrong, almost beyond bearing, brimming with anger and agony and love. Martha, brave and willfully strong, accepting and pleading and finally resigned. Donna, lost and found and ultimately utterly lost to him. An endless string of others, most of them far beyond lost._

Then the small, weeping part of him finally managed to break free, and he sobbed into the ground until he was blinded by mud made of earth and tears, and his remaining senses abandoned him.

* * *

Jack hung up the phone with a hand shaking so hard he had to use his other hand to steady the receiver into the cradle. They'd found the Doctor.

He ground his knuckles into dry and burning eyes. This was… Well, not miraculous. You needed some kind of god for miracles, and he wasn't sure he believed in God any longer. So many deaths he'd experienced, and there was never anything beyond. This was luck, chance, an accident. The Doctor's survival shouldn't have been left to such tenuous things. He deserved better than that.

Jack sat for a moment while his mind struggled to function through a tangle of guilt and relief, then he grabbed up the phone again to call Martha. He hadn't seen her since that night they'd slept wrapped around each other in his bed. Their only contact since then had been phone calls. He supposed it was just too painful for them to look into one another's eyes and see the hopelessness there. It was bad enough to hear the traces of it in each other's voices. If this had gone on much longer, he was sure they would've degraded to e-mail and text messages, and then into silence.

His clumsy hand inadvertently yanked the phone a few inches closer to him, and as he shifted the receiver to his left hand and reached out with his right to hit the speed dial key, his eye was caught by the glint of something silver resting against the base of the desk lamp behind the phone. He reached out and nudged the bit of metal away from the lamp and saw that it was the missing piece of the alarm clock casing.

He fumbled the phone receiver down onto the desktop, picked up the piece of metal and turned it over in his hand, then sat staring dumbfounded at a message that had been engraved on the inner surface. It was addressed to him, using his real name, just as the woman who had given him the clock had done. The message itself consisted of one line, "Never abandon hope," and below that was a complex symbol made of interwoven arcs and circles. Gallifreyan.

He sucked in a deep breath, sudden tears springing to his eyes as he closed the piece of metal in a tight fist. If only he'd tried harder to find it, he might've spared himself and Martha some of the pain they'd been going through. The Doctor didn't know his name yet. The woman he'd met on that street corner so many years ago must be one of the Doctor's companions-to-be, which meant he would have a future. But… Jack swallowed hard at the other possibilities that presented themselves. Perhaps the Doctor did know his true name already and simply hadn't let on. He was like that, keeping things to himself. Maybe he'd sent the message from his past for some reason that he'd also never bothered to mention to Jack. It might even be possible that the clock didn't belong to the Doctor at all. One Gallifreyan symbol couldn't be taken as absolute proof of ownership.

He was abruptly jerked back to what he'd been doing by the harsh, intermittent buzzing coming from the phone receiver, alerting him that he'd left it out of the cradle without dialing. He shoved the piece of the clock into his trouser pocket so it wouldn't go missing again and then called Martha.

She answered her phone after just one ring. "Yes?" Quick and breathless. She'd stopped saying hello many days ago and had even stopped asking if the Doctor had been found or if there was any news at all. But she always answered right away and there was always anticipation in her voice, although it had stopped being a good sort of expectation and had turned mostly to dread by now.

"He's been found, Martha." He had to struggle to keep his voice steady.

A beat of silence from Martha. She must be trying to process what he'd just told her. "Is he alive?" she finally asked, her voice rough.

"Yes." He heard her letting out a sharp breath of relief and anticipated her next question. "He didn't even regenerate."

"Thank God," she said, and he thought he heard the sound of a muffled sob. Then another moment of silence before she asked. "Where did you find him?"

"It wasn't me that found him." It was a stab in the gut to make the admission. "A couple of newlyweds on a walking holiday through Wales found him in the woods near a footpath. He must've figured a way to escape. I doubt the Plasmavores would've just let him go." _Not alive at least,_ he added to himself. He pressed his lips together for a moment and ground his teeth. He should've been able to find the Doctor, to help him. Right in his own damn backyard. He knew he wasn't helping matters by allowing his own self-recrimination to distract him and keep him from focusing on what needed to be done, though, so he forced himself to say in a controlled voice, "The police called in to the scene identified him from the alert we sent out. He's being transported to the local hospital now. The medics reported his condition as critical but stable. I don't have any details beyond that at the moment."

He heard her take a deep breath which could've been a sign of either relief at the "stable" part or worry about the "critical" part. Then she said in a relatively composed voice, "Where? Which hospital? We shouldn't leave him there any longer than absolutely necessary."

"I know." He doubted the medics would've overlooked the fact that the Doctor had an extra heart. They didn't need to know anything more than that. "The hospital's near Crickhowell, up in the Brecon Beacons. I'm going to head up there now. Do you know if there are any UNIT personnel in the area?"

"Um, yeah, there are actually. Including me." He sat there stunned by surprise for a moment. It was an amazing stroke of luck. Coincidence. Serendipity. Whatever. He'd take it. "Okay, you stay where you are," she went on briskly, her voice steady and assured now. "I'll bring him to you. We've got a couple of helicopters here. I'll commandeer one of them, contact the hospital from the air and find out what we're dealing with. As long as he remains stable, I can have him to Cardiff inside of an hour. Where can we land?"

Much as he'd like to tell her to land the helicopter right in the middle of the Plass, he knew that wasn't practical and would attract far too much attention. "The Cardiff Heliport, in Tremorfa. It's only a few miles away." He considered for a moment going to meet them himself with one of the SUVs, but realized that wouldn't be the best idea either. He should stay here and coordinate the practicalities. "I've got a contact at a local emergency transport service. He'll arrange for an ambulance to meet you and the Doctor at the heliport. His people are very discreet, go where they're told and don't ask questions. The driver will bring you and the Doctor to the entrance to the Torchwood parking garage. He'll know where it is."

"Good. Any other cleanup we need to do up here? Were the Plasmavores found?" She was a bit breathless as she spoke and he could hear her feet thudding across turf. Working the problem instead of thinking about who was involved. That ability was part of what made her such a good field operative, but he suspected she hadn't always been that way. She'd seemed like a much different person when he'd first met her. More fallout from the Year.

"Dead in a cottage not far from where the Doctor was found," he replied. "All six of them. From appearances, they didn't die easily. Don't worry about that. I'll send some of my team to retrieve the bodies."

"Any idea who killed them?" Her tone was clipped, businesslike. For a moment it seemed to him as if they were having a conversation about any other case they'd worked together. He didn't like it, but it was probably what they both needed to get through this.

"The police didn't find anyone else in the area," he replied. "I don't know how well they searched. Whoever did it might've been long gone."

"And left the Doctor there?" she asked with a mix of disbelief and anger. Now it was becoming inevitably personal again. He didn't like that either. It hurt too much.

"Maybe he got out before they were killed," he said, trying to take refuge in reasoning. "I suppose the Proclamation could've finally found the Plasmavores and dealt with them, then didn't bother to look for the Doctor or notify us. Sounds about right for them."

"Or…" Her voice trailed off.

"Or what?"

"He might've killed them himself."

He didn't answer. He didn't want to think about that possibility because it would mean the Doctor's situation had been staggeringly dire. He wouldn't have done something like that otherwise. Maybe not even then. At least not in a sound frame of mind.

"I need to go," she said sharply. "I'll call you en route to Cardiff." He could hear the sound of helicopter rotors and Martha shouting, "I'm taking one of the helicopters. I need a pilot," before the connection was cut.

He took a moment to compose himself, then made a phone call to the ambulance service and another call to the heliport to inform them of the impending arrival of a UNIT helicopter. After that he got up from his desk and went out into the adjoining work area, shouting for his team to gather. They'd been giving him a wide berth lately whenever they were in the Hub – the work stations immediately outside his office had been gathering dust for the most part – but he suspected they were staying nearby as much as possible. He was proven correct when Gwen and Ianto appeared almost immediately, Inman not far behind.

There were smiles of relief mixed with concern when he gave them the news, but he suspected that was more for his sake than anything else. That was all right. They barely knew the Doctor after all. Gwen and Ianto had only briefly met him face-to-face on two occasions. They knew his reputation as Torchwood's prime enemy, and knew the falsehood of that via Jack's insistence, even before the Doctor had gone and yet again solidly proven his worth and innocence by saving the Earth from Davros and the Daleks. But that wasn't the same as really knowing him, having travelled with him, having learned respect for him and even having received respect from him in return. And friendship. They had friendship, even if the Doctor couldn't physically stand near him without flinching.

"Martha's bringing the Doctor to Cardiff via helicopter," he said once he'd finished relating the few details he knew regarding the discovery of the Doctor and the Plasmavores. "I'm staying here to wait for her. I want the rest of you to head up to Crickhowell. The local authorities can take you out to the cottage, then you can tell them to shove off. Secure the site and bring the bodies and anything else relevant back here. The cloaking device might still be there as well. It could've exhausted its power source or been damaged. Something happened to it for that cottage to become visible again. Take some retcon in case anyone starts asking too many questions or tries to keep you from doing your job."

Gwen and Ianto nodded and immediately went to gather up their gear, but Inman stayed where she was. "I'll be of more use here," she said firmly.

He glared, annoyed at her questioning of his orders. This wasn't the time or place for it. "Martha can handle it. She knows the Doctor's physiology better than anyone on the planet." Which actually wasn't saying much. She'd once admitted to him that she only knew bits and pieces, some from her time travelling with him, a bit more from the UNIT files, but not very much taken altogether. Hopefully it would be enough.

Inman fixed him with an unyielding stare. "But she'll need assistance. So unless you've got medical training you haven't told me about–"

"All right," he snapped. "Point taken."

She couldn't leave it at that, though. She had to add, "And I'm the one who's examined the other victims."

Rage flared in him suddenly. He closed the distance between them quickly and shoved a finger into her face. "Don't–" He shuddered, took a deep breath. "He's not a victim. Don't you dare talk about him like that." She blinked at him in surprise, nodded once in acquiescence, but didn't say anything. Smart woman.

"Fine." He backed off. "You can stay. But you do everything Martha tells you, immediately, without question. They'll be here in less than an hour. I'll be waiting outside the garage entrance. Meet me there once you've done whatever you need to do to get ready here."

"Understood," said crisply as she nodded, then turned and headed towards the medical bay she'd insisted on setting up soon after he'd hired her, saying she didn't like giving medical care to the living in the same place she dissected alien bodies. She'd wanted to appropriate the armory due to its proximity to the entrance and have the weapons moved to locked cabinets on the nearby wall. He'd unkindly joked that she was setting up one-stop shopping – the stab and gunshot ward right next to the source. Then he'd told her she should leave the walls red because there'd be less cleanup involved. He'd immediately felt guilty for baiting her like that, but didn't give in on displacing the armory. Instead he'd allowed her to take over one of the storage rooms down the hallway on the other side of the Hub.

For the first time he found himself agreeing with her reasoning for setting up a medbay. The thought of putting the Doctor on that cold, hard table in the autopsy room was worse than any image of blood and vampires his mind could conjure up.

He stared at her back until she disappeared through the door at the bottom of the stairs, then the heat rushed out of him, and he was left so utterly cold he had to wrap his arms around himself to keep from shivering. There was nothing more he could do here to get ready, so he headed to the surface to be there the moment Martha arrived with the Doctor.


	7. Inhumanity

Chapter 7 – "Inhumanity"

Martha called Jack twice while he was anxiously pacing back and forth along the street where he'd instructed the ambulance service to bring her and the Doctor. He drew a few curious and occasionally nervous stares from passersby, which he mostly ignored, although he responded to a few with wordless glares. That had the desired effect of turning their heads away from him and hurrying them on about their own business.

The first call was from the hospital in Crickhowell as she was waiting for the helicopter to return from a local airfield where the pilot had taken it for refueling. Martha had used her credentials to appropriate part of A&E so she could limit access to the Doctor and prevent too many awkward questions. They'd already noticed the extra heart. Martha had told them they must've been mistaken. He imagined she'd followed her assertion with the kind of meaningful glare that told them they'd do well to convince themselves of that fact.

She'd also contacted her superior officer at UNIT and informed him that she was following a lead on an open case and would be out of contact for a while. It wasn't the first time she'd done such a thing, and her superior had quickly granted permission to pursue the lead and report back to him later. She hadn't wanted to mention the Doctor specifically because she felt it best to protect the details of his state of health. The last thing they needed was someone taking advantage of the situation. Not everyone in UNIT trusted the Doctor or saw him in a favorable light.

She was about to hang up because the helicopter had returned, but Jack pressed her for details about the Doctor's condition. It was partly morbid curiosity, but he also felt he should pass a report along to Inman so she would have some idea of what she might have to deal with.

Martha gave him a quick and professional rundown as the gurney was being wheeled to the helicopter and loaded inside. She'd found him to be completely unresponsive to outside stimulus and seriously dehydrated. He had second-degree burns on one hand, and had a large number of deep puncture wounds on his extremities, most of them infected. His vitals were stable, though, so she'd decided it was safe to go ahead and transport him to Cardiff.

After the call ended with a firm request from Jack to call him again if anything at all changed, he was left with the mental image created by Martha's description of the Doctor's condition. He was torn between the urge to vomit and wanting to throw his mobile to the ground as hard as he could, but settled for clenching his fist and pounding it against his thigh several times.

The second call was from the ambulance en route to Torchwood. The Doctor had regained consciousness, but had been extremely agitated and hadn't seemed to recognize Martha or to know where or even when he was. She'd had to sedate him to keep him from further injuring himself.

Inman arrived a short time after the end of the latter call, and he tersely passed along the information Martha had provided. She nodded, but didn't say anything else and left him a wide berth to pace back and forth.

As soon as he heard the ambulance's siren approaching, he punched in a code on the panel next to the garage entrance and left the steel door rolling upwards behind him as he turned his attention back toward the direction of the ambulance's approach. He rocked impatiently back and forth on his feet, and had to work to overcome the urge to run along the street to meet them.

The ambulance finally came into sight around a curve, and as it pulled up, the siren stopped. Jack was grateful for that as the sound was unsettling at the very least. He motioned to the driver to back up partially into the garage entrance so he wouldn't be blocking the street. They hardly needed to attract any more attention than they already were. A young woman walking by on the other side of the street had already slowed down and was staring with a deep frown and vaguely curious look on her face. Jack made a waving motion to her, indicating that she should move along, and fortunately for her, she did.

The driver turned off the ambulance lights, hopped out of the cab, and gave Jack a grim nod as he passed by and headed towards the back of the vehicle. Jack followed with Inman right behind him. The driver opened the rear doors and then stepped aside, affording Jack a clear view into the patient bay. He noted how drawn Martha's face was as she finished shoving some kind of equipment into a cabinet on the other side of the Doctor. She pulled her stethoscope from around her neck and folded down a corner of the blanket covering him to listen to his hearts, so Jack remained silent, not wanting to interrupt her.

From his lower position on the ground, Jack couldn't see much of the Doctor's upper body, so as he waited for Martha to finish what she was doing, he tried to distract himself by looking at the various items that were scattered on and around the Doctor. Between the gurney rail and his feet on one side there was a black duffle that was partially unzipped with some plastic tubing peeking out. Tucked between the Doctor's feet was a plastic sack with a pair of battered blue Chucks perched on top. He figured the Doctor's clothing must be inside the bag. The thought that the Doctor had needed to have someone else undress him made him seem entirely too vulnerable to Jack, so he deliberately looked away. He let his eyes drift towards the head of the gurney, where there was a short pole with an IV bag filled with clear liquid hanging from a hook at the top.

"Okay. Let's get him out of here," he heard Martha say, her voice tinged with worry and urgency. Jack's attention went immediately back to her. She was in the process of shoving her stethoscope into an inner pocket of her black military jacket. Once she'd done that and had flipped the corner of the blanket back into place, she finally turned to look directly at him. Her expression was controlled, but he saw a flicker of anguish in her eyes as she met his gaze. "He was stable almost all the way here, but his vitals are starting to get erratic now. Might be a side effect of the sedative. We need to get him down to your medbay as quickly as possible."

Jack nodded sharply and helped pull the gurney out of the ambulance, its legs automatically unfolding down to the ground. As he shifted around to the top of the gurney, he finally had a good look at the Doctor's face, at least the part of it not obscured by an oxygen mask. He was barely recognizable, his skin leached of color with livid bruises standing out starkly and his hair a matted mess. Blood and something yellowish were leaking through the large bandages taped to either side of his neck. Must be the infection Martha had mentioned. He might not be a doctor, but he knew the Doctor, and there was no way he should have wounds that weren't healing, much less becoming infected.

From his new position, he could also see two small, flat, yellow boxes, one on either side of the Doctor's head. Wires attached to the devices ran down underneath the blanket, and small screens displaying jagged lines suggested to Jack that they were some kind of portable EKG monitors. It seemed Martha had been prepared for this eventuality. He couldn't imagine any other reason why she would need two EKGs. He wondered how long she'd been carrying around a duffle equipped specifically for the Doctor.

Jack glanced over his shoulder and said to the ambulance driver, "We've got it from here. Just hit the red button at the bottom of the keypad after you back out. That'll close the door."

As Martha and Inman took up positions to either side of the gurney, Jack gave it a firm but gentle nudge down the ramp into the underground garage. Then he shifted his hands to hold onto the gurney's frame to counter the pull of gravity down into the main parking area. As they went, he made terse introductions, saying only, "Martha, Inman. Inman, Martha."

"Please, call me Sara," Inman said, her voice slightly irritated. She didn't look at Jack as she spoke.

Martha, though, flicked a questioning glance at him as she replied, "Okay. Sara it is." She was probably wondering why he referred to Inman by her last name while everyone else was on a first-name basis. Actually, now that he thought about it, he wasn't quite sure himself. He'd even called Owen by his first name right from the beginning, and Owen had been a bigger prat than Inman could ever be, even if she were trying, which he had to admit she hadn't ever done, not really.

Inman asked, "What have we got, then?" She sounded very calm and professional. Jack had to admit it would probably be useful to have her around – someone who wasn't personally involved who could help smooth over the inevitable rough patches he was sure they'd encounter. Medical ones, that is. He had no interest in receiving any kind of sympathy from her. Maybe Martha would find Inman to be an emotionally steadying presence. He doubted he was going to be of much help in that department. He'd try for Martha's sake, but he was falling apart inside so much himself that he didn't think he'd be capable of shoring up someone else.

Martha started to respond to Inman's question, but then told Jack to stop when a series of beeps started coming from one of the EKG monitors. Fortunately, they'd reached the level part of the garage and were just about to head between the SUVs to the door leading into the entrance tunnel, so it was relatively easy to halt the gurney.

Martha picked up the device and pushed a button to stop the alert, just as the street level garage door finished rolling shut and cut off the indirect glow of daylight, leaving them with only artificial light. After frowning at the EKG screen for a moment, she put the monitor down, pulled out her stethoscope and fitted it into her ears. Then she folded the blanket covering the Doctor halfway down to his waist so she could listen to his chest.

The surge of sharp worry Jack felt due to the EKG alarm and Martha's reaction to it was suddenly frozen as he stared at the Doctor's upper body. Amongst the smattering of EKG electrodes, there were so many bandages taped haphazardly over his arms and sides that Jack didn't even want to hazard a guess as to how many there were. Most of them were seeping through with the red of blood and yellowish stains like the ones on the Doctor's neck. What the hell had the goddamn Plasmavores been doing? Snacking on him for the past three weeks?

A sudden flash of insight made Jack realize the true reason vampires inspired such disgust in him. It wasn't the thought of their drinking blood, not as an isolated action on its own; it was the thought of taking every last drop of blood, the entirety of existence from another in order to survive. Life after life after life, all traded for the continuation of only one. It was backwards. The balance of sacrifice should be in favor of the survivors. The Doctor had nearly offered up his own life so many times to save so many others. The Plasmavores' treatment of him was more than merely injury to his physical body; it was an affront to his selflessness and to his devotion to the cause of life.

Another alert sounded from the EKG, this time a series of rapid and decidedly more strident beeps. "Damn it," Martha growled under her breath as she impatiently hit a button on the EKG to silence the alarm. "Asystole on the left heart." She quickly removed the stethoscope from her ears and tossed it down onto the blanket still covering the Doctor's lower half, but before she could take any further action, the other EKG took up the alarm. "Asystole on the other side as well." She also turned off that alert.

Before Jack could fully process what was going on, Martha had dropped the rail on her side of the gurney and clambered up to awkwardly straddle the Doctor's chest, nudging his arms out of the way and using her knee to support herself on one side and her foot on the other. She locked her hands together as she leaned down to compress his chest on the right side.

 _Oh, damn. Damn damn damn._ Jack's brain stuck on that one word, not wanting to accept what was obviously happening. He stood there wondering if he should help. He knew CPR, had been taught ages ago how to perform it on humans, and had since found that it translated fairly well to aliens, as long as you could locate a heart. Martha obviously knew where the Doctor kept his. She was already shifting to the other side with a surety that seemed to indicate she'd done this before.

"There's an Ambu bag in my duffle," she said tersely. For a moment Jack thought she was talking to him, but Inman was already scurrying around the foot of the gurney to retrieve the equipment. Of course. Why would Martha need his help when she had another fully qualified doctor to assist? Inman had just started to rummage through the bag in search of what she needed, Martha deftly switching from side to side of the Doctor's chest after several compressions each, when Martha said, "No, wait. Check the pulse oximeter first. On his left hand."

Inman went to the side of the gurney and lifted the Doctor's hand. There was a small device clipped onto his index finger with a readout on the top. "It's at 99 percent," she said with a confused look on her face. Jack realized he probably should've given her the UNIT file on the Doctor, but he hadn't planned on Inman even being here until her last-minute appeal to stay. She seemed to be taking everything as it came without hesitation, though. He might have to reevaluate his opinion of her after this was all over.

"That means respiratory bypass is still working," Martha said. "I should've thought of that." She shook her head and blinked a few times, never faltering in the cardiac compressions, but Jack could tell she was rattled by her temporary oversight. "We should give him some epinephrine, though. There are some prefilled syringes in a case in the side pocket of the duffle. Five cc's to start."

Inman didn't question Martha's orders and didn't waste time asking for explanations. Another point in her favor. She quickly retrieved the medication and injected it into a port in the IV line. There wasn't an immediate reaction, which seemed to frustrate Martha, but she said, "Let's give that a few minutes to work. I don't want to risk overdosing him. In the meantime, let's get moving again."

Jack figured that comment was directed towards him, so he instantly complied by giving the gurney a gentle shove, not wanting to disturb Martha's rhythm as she continued compressing the Doctor's chest. That only earned him a glare from Inman, though, as she arrested the forwards movement of the gurney by grabbing the lowered rail and yanking it back up again. "We don't need him falling on the floor," she said with a bit of heat. Jack supposed he should've thought of that. Martha's weight and strength wouldn't be enough to hold the Doctor on the gurney if he revived and was agitated again. _No._ When _he revives_ , Jack told himself firmly. He refused to consider any other option.

He resumed pushing the gurney. Martha didn't comment on the exchange between him and Inman – she was obviously too focused on her task to spare the effort – but she did divert her attention enough to say, "Sara, keep an eye on the pulse oximeter and let me know if the saturation starts falling."

"Right," Inman replied. "I'll need to get the door first, though."

"Okay, fine. Do what you have to, but watch the oximeter as much as you can. His respiratory bypass system should get him down to the medbay, but I want to know as soon as possible if anything changes."

Inman nodded, then went to open and hold the door to the entrance tunnel. Jack maneuvered the gurney through the narrow aisle between the SUVs and was about to go through the doorway when he noticed that Martha was probably going to knock her head on the top of the doorframe. He reached up and pushed her head down slightly to keep that from happening. She didn't seem to even notice.

Once they'd cleared the door, Inman returned to the Doctor's side and checked the pulse oximeter. "Still at 99 percent," she said. "Going to get the lift now."

Jack continued to push the gurney as quickly and smoothly as he could, thinking ahead to the distance and amount of time he'd need to stop so they didn't crash into the lift door at the end of the tunnel. It took some concentration and was a diversion from other thoughts, which was what he needed, at least for a few moments. He brought them to a relatively smooth halt just a foot shy of the door and had to wait a handful of seconds before it slid open. Then he nudged the gurney forwards into the lift, once again making sure that Martha didn't have a close encounter with the top of the doorway by giving her head a brief push downwards.

"Damn it, Jack," she hissed as she looked up at him. "Would you stop doing that?"

"Sorry," he replied in a tight voice. "Just trying to keep you from whacking your head. Doorway's a bit lower than you are."

She glanced up to see what he was talking about as Inman wedged herself between the wall and the gurney. "Oh. All right," she replied absently, then returned her full attention to the Doctor.

The door slid closed and blank moments followed, during which Jack couldn't do anything but stare at Martha's hands and the Doctor's chest as it flexed under the pressure being applied to it. He distractedly noted there were no bandages on the Doctor's chest, although the skin was mottled with bruises, including one long, narrow patch of discoloration down the center. He didn't want to think what had caused that. He could also now clearly see that what little bare skin on his arms and sides wasn't covered by bandages was marked by dark bruises and streaked with angry red. He felt his skin prickling with the heat of anger while his stomach churned with nausea.

Martha ordered another 5 cc's of epinephrine on the way down, again with no readily apparent effect. Then they were finally down to Hub level. Martha ducked her own head this time as they exited the lift and stopped for the blast door.

 _Too damn many doors,_ Jack thought as he sidled around the gurney and reached into his pocket for his keys. He'd overridden the automatic blast door closure sequence when he'd gone topside, but Inman must've manually closed it on her way out. Standard protocol, but it didn't stop him from feeling a surge of annoyance.

His hand quickly closed around the keys, his fingertips brushing against the piece of alarm clock casing he'd put in his pocket earlier. As he simultaneously shoved both keys into the locks and twisted them emphatically, he found himself fervently hoping that the inscription on the piece of metal meant what he'd first thought it did. Even so, there was nothing to mitigate what had been done to the Doctor or the reasons for it.

There was another seemingly interminable pause while they waited for the blast door to roll aside, Martha now audibly counting compressions under her breath. He wondered why she'd started doing that. He guessed she'd been keeping a mental count earlier. Maybe she'd realized she should've been counting out loud all along – that was Jack's understanding of CPR procedure anyway – or maybe the repeated numbers were simply a sort of soothing mantra to her. He didn't suppose it mattered as long as it was fulfilling its purpose, whatever that was. She seemed a little breathless, however, whether from the effort needed for the compressions or from the strain of the situation, Jack didn't know. Probably a bit of both. He felt thoroughly rattled himself, but was managing to keep his reactions mostly under control with concentration and deep breaths. It was difficult, though, with the effects of the stress he'd been under. He probably should've made more of an effort to keep himself in better condition by eating and sleeping properly. Too late now. He'd worry about it later.

Once the blast and barred doors were fully open, Inman left the Doctor's side long enough to hold up the bottom end of the gurney to help ease it down the two steps into the Hub. Then she immediately resumed her station monitoring the pulse oximeter as they headed left towards the red-lit entrance to the corridor of storage rooms. At least she'd thought to prop open the double doors there, as well as the door of the medbay.

Jack went past the medbay entrance and then reversed so that head of the gurney went in first. "Door!" he called to Martha an instant before she smacked her head, and she quickly ducked just long enough for them to get through the doorway. He backed the gurney in, near to the right of the bed already in the medbay, then moved away and waited, wondering if he should just leave the room entirely and give Inman and Martha enough room to get about their work. He couldn't bring himself to do that, though, and the room was large enough that his excuse was flimsy.

Inman was already lowering the gurney rails, allowing Martha to hop down. Instead of immediately returning her attention to the Doctor, though, she grabbed Jack and physically pushed him towards the other side of the medbay bed, then she and Inman pushed the gurney flush against the side of the bed. He went where Martha had indicated but was confused for a moment, until she said, "Lean over and grab the sheet. Pull him over on three." She took hold of the other edge of the sheet underneath the Doctor while Inman grabbed the duffle, Chucks and bag containing the Doctor's clothing and quickly shoved them all on the counter behind Jack. Then she joined Martha and took her own fistfuls of sheet.

Martha counted to three, and Jack pulled hard on the sheet, expecting it to be a bit of an effort to shift the Doctor's weight. But it wasn't. He stumbled backward, and Martha and Inman were roughly pulled across the gurney with the force of his movement. The Doctor almost went right over onto the floor, but Jack managed to lunge forwards and use his chest to shove him back into the middle of the bed.

He gave Martha a worried look. There was no way the Doctor should be that light. The man was over six feet tall, for crying out loud. Although he was far from healthy, he didn't look particularly emaciated either. "I know. I should've warned you," she said, equal concern mirrored in her eyes. "I don't know why, but he weighs considerably less now than he normally would."

She shook her head and looked down, then leaned over a bit to, her eyes searching under the bed. Jack wondered what she was doing as she bent over and disappeared from his view entirely for a moment. There was a scraping sound, then Martha stepped up and onto what must be a stool of some kind. Ah. That made sense. Martha needed a bit of additional height to lean over the Doctor and continue chest compressions. There was a certain fluidity in her motions that spoke of her experience, but Jack could also sense a tension in her that seemed to vibrate through the air and set him even more on edge than he'd already been.

He attempted to take a deep breath, but it caught in the back of his throat. He swallowed and blew out again, then tried to distract himself and be of some use by moving the gurney out of the way. Inman told him to wait a moment, though. She was in the process of taking the IV bag off the pole on the gurney and relocating it to a stand next to the bed. Once she'd done that, she detached the tubing from the portable oxygen tank under the head of the gurney and connected it to a larger oxygen tank near the wall. Instead of turning the valve, though, she removed the mask from the Doctor's face and hung it by its strap from the top of the large tank. He supposed there was little point in putting it back on the Doctor at the moment since he wasn't actually breathing. "Okay, you can take it now," Inman finally said.

He quickly parked the gurney in the hall and returned to stand in the doorway and watch as Martha continued administering CPR. Surely she must be getting tired by now. He thought he could detect a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Inman was doing something with a machine on a cart next to the wall near Martha, flipping switches and setting off a muted whining noise. Must be a defibrillator.

Martha looked over her shoulder and gave Inman a grim look, but didn't say anything. As she turned back to her patient, though, she shot Jack an exasperated look. "Don't just stand there, Jack. Get in here. We could use an extra pair of hands." When he just stood there, not understanding how he was supposed to help, she snapped, "Come on, Jack. Get your arse in here."

That knocked him out of his state of dazed inaction. He stepped quickly up to her side. "What do you want me to do?"

She hopped off the stepstool, kicked it back under the bed, and said, "Take over compressions. Right here." She pulled his hands over and placed them in the proper position on the left side of the Doctor's chest. "And over here." She pointed to a corresponding spot on the other side. "You're going to be pressing down on his ribs, but you need to use the same pressure as you would on a human sternum. You've done CPR before, haven't you?" He nodded quickly, not trusting his voice at the moment. "Five compressions per side then switch. Got it?" He nodded again. "Good. Go."

He did as she'd instructed him, starting a five-count, but he could feel and thought he even heard something creaking under the pressure. He kept pressing down and releasing but stopped counting long enough to ask, "I'm not going to break his ribs, am I?"

Martha had gone around the other side of the bed and was moving the pulse oximeter to the Doctor's right hand, probably so she could keep an eye on the readings as Inman rummaged in the drawers on the cart. Martha didn't answer him immediately. As he reached across the Doctor to do compressions on the right side, resuming his count again, he noticed there was a thick bandage wrapped around the middle of that hand. That must be where the burn was. He wondered what had caused it, but set the thought aside. It was the least of their worries at the moment. He returned his full attention to his far more immediate task, wincing a bit at the feel of bones giving under his hands.

Switch. Count again. Martha peered intently at the right EKG monitor and pushed some buttons on the device. As she worked, she said absently, "You probably won't do him any lasting damage. His ribcage seems to be more elastic than a human's."

It wasn't a terribly reassuring answer. The Doctor's body had sustained more than enough damage already, and Jack didn't want to be the cause of any further injury. Still, if that was what it took to save him, he'd do it. He continued pressing firmly, counting quietly so as not to disturb Martha's concentration. It was an effort to keep the occasional quiver out of his voice, so he didn't bother trying. He needed to pay attention to what he was doing.

Martha briefly lifted the Doctor's hand to read the pulse-oximeter, then carefully laid his hand back down again before leaning over to have a look at the left EKG. "Hold compressions for a moment, Jack," she said as she straightened, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two EKGs. He did so and waited, hoping this meant a positive development.

Apparently not, though. Martha shook her head and told him to resume, then turned to pull another syringe from the case she'd had in her duffle. She injected the contents into the IV port. "Another 10 cc's of epinephrine on board," she said, probably for Inman's benefit. Then she went back to watching the monitors, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Inman had apparently finished whatever preparations she had been making and was now standing near the head of the bed next to Jack, her eyes fixed intently on the EKG display nearest her.

He wasn't sure exactly what Martha and Inman were waiting for, but decided that their not using the defibrillator was not a good sign. Tension was knitting painfully through his shoulders. It just wouldn't be fair for the Doctor to regenerate now. He'd survived three weeks at the mercy of those blood-sucking monsters. He was in safe hands now. Surely his body wouldn't give out at this point.

Martha was apparently thinking along the same lines. "Come on, Doctor," she muttered. "Fight back. Don't you dare give up now." Another moment of tense silence, another instruction to Jack to stop compressions, but this time one of the EKGs began to emit a serious of uneven beeps, "Okay, we've got V-fib on the left." Her voice was a bit shaky, but she sounded relieved.

"Defibrillator's ready," Inman said as she began to push the cart she'd been working on around the end of the bed.

"I've got it," Martha replied, her voice now sharp and in control as she grabbed the cart and pulled it to the right side of the bed. Inman took up a position next to Jack, bumping into his hip as she moved. Jack was about to make a sharp retort about being crowded out of the way when Martha snapped, "Move, Jack. Give her some room."

He immediately obeyed, sidling up along the bed until he bumped into the wall at the top. He automatically reached out a hand and pressed his palm hard against the cold, smooth concrete of the surface. Now that he had been relegated from active participant to observer, he could keenly feel the knot in his stomach. He swallowed and took a deep breath, his attention fixed on what was now happening.

Martha tossed a tube of something onto the Doctor's chest, and Inman quickly grabbed it and flipped the lid open. Martha held the defibrillator paddles out to her, and she squeezed a generous glob of some kind of clear gel onto the surface of one of them. Martha rubbed the paddles together, spreading the gel, then pressed one to the Doctor's right side. She hesitated a moment, holding the other paddle uncertainly over the Doctor's chest before she applied it to the upper part of his sternum.

"That should do it," she muttered, seemingly to herself, then she said more clearly with a glance at Inman, "Don't want to risk arcing over to the other heart." Inman nodded as if she understood what Martha meant. Jack hoped she'd put together the few pieces of information she had at her disposal and actually did know what was going on. He really should've given her those files.

"Okay, clear!" Martha called out. Across the bed, Inman took a step back and raised her hands, and Jack followed her lead by doing the same, even though he wasn't touching the bed or its occupant. He was now wedged into the corner of the wall and a tall cabinet. He was glad of the support because he was starting to feel a bit dizzy.

Martha depressed the buttons at the top of the paddles, setting off a loud clack that made Jack flinch. The Doctor's body tensed briefly but then went lax again. There was a brief moment of silence, then the erratic pattern picked up on the EKG again. The defibrillator whined as it charged back up again. Martha called, "Clear!" once again and pressed down firmly on the paddles before administering another shock.

It took one increase of the power and four shocks total – Jack counted every one and winced each time the burst of electricity flowed through the Doctor's chest – before the chaotic pattern of the EKG turned into a regular and steady one. Jack let out a shaky breath as Martha moved the defibrillator cart to his side of the bed, switching places with Inman. One heart working again.

"Should I start compressions again on this side?" he asked hesitantly. He'd only ever performed CPR on people with one heart. He had no idea what to do with two hearts.

"No," Martha replied, her voice tense but even. "That won't be necessary. He can make do with one heart if he has to. Hurts like hell if he's awake to feel it, but he's not, so…" She trailed off and frowned, her eyebrows scrunching together. "In fact…" She pushed the cart out of her way, took a deep breath, raised her arm, and abruptly slammed her fist down onto the left side of the Doctor's chest.

"Martha!" Jack gasped, astonished at her behavior. She didn't seem angry, though, just very intently focused. She ignored him, her eyes fixed on the EKG, so he looked to Inman instead, who merely shook her head and shrugged. She didn't seem alarmed, so it must be some kind of accepted procedure. He hoped it wasn't some kind of last, desperate measure to get the second heart beating properly again.

He returned his attention to Martha just as she brought her fist down on the Doctor's chest yet again, with what seemed to be even more force than the first time. "This worked before," she said as she flicked a quick glance at Jack. "It had better work again."

She waited a moment, the EKG sounding another alarm. She slapped it with some force, silencing the strident beeping. "I know, you bloody thing. Shut up!" Then she shifted her stance, obviously preparing to hit the Doctor again. And she did, this time with both hands, one wrapped around the other.

A moment of silence, then her effort was rewarded with a set of beeps from the EKG, this time short and regular, setting up a cadence with the first monitor. They weren't quite synchronized, though, one heart beating slightly after the other in a strange sort of syncopation. Jack wondered if that was normal, but he wasn't about to question it. Two hearts beating had to be better than one, no matter the rhythm.

"Oh, thank God," Martha muttered. Again she glanced at Jack and offered him a faint smile, but she quickly returned her attention to the Doctor, leaning over him, her ear near his mouth and her eyes fixed on his chest. After a long of moment of listening and watching, she said, "He's still not breathing." She stood up straight and absently brushed a bit of the Doctor's fringe away from his forehead. "What are you doing, Doctor? Why aren't you breathing?" Another frown, and she looked over at Inman. "How's his saturation?"

Inman checked the pulse-oximeter on the Doctor's hand. "Holding at 99 percent," she said, but then a moment later she amended her statement. "No, wait. It's starting to fall. Down to 97 percent. Ninety-five. Ninety-three."

"Damn it," Martha said, then pressed her lips tightly together.

"Ninety." Inman continued her count. "Eighty-five. Should we bag him?"

Martha nodded sharply and held out an impatient hand. Inman turned to reach into the duffle on the counter behind her and retrieved what Jack assumed was the Ambu bag Martha had mentioned earlier. She handed it to Martha, who took it and pressed the mask part of it over the Doctor's face and waited while Inman took a tube that was attached to the end of a large, bulbous part, presumably the "bag" in "Ambu bag," ran it to the head of the bed and attached it to the oxygen tank. Then Martha began to compress the bag with a brief pause between each squeeze. Jack could see the Doctor's chest rise and fall slightly with each breath Martha was pushing into him.

"Oxygen saturation's coming back up," Inman said as she looked at the device on the Doctor's finger. "Do you think we should intubate him? I've got a vent in another room."

Martha shook her head and said, "No. I don't think we're at that point yet." Then she turned her attention back to the Ambu bag, squeezing even more emphatically, or so it appeared to Jack.

"Back to ninety-five," Inman said, then stood silently for a moment, seeming lost as to what to do. She finally asked, "Do you want me to hook one set of EKG leads up to the larger monitor? I've only got the one, but we could connect a hard-wired pulse-oximeter and a blood pressure cuff and monitor all of that from one place."

"Good idea," Martha replied, still intent on her task, but her voice as she continued to speak gradually lost a bit of its tension. "I've got no idea what his normal blood pressure is, but at least we'll know if it starts falling. I do know his resting pulse should be around 60 for each heart. We'll have to keep using my oximeter, though. I had to recalibrate it for his biology. His blood normally carries a much higher concentration of oxygen than human blood. It was just guess work, raising the threshold until the reading dropped below 100. With what he's been through, even that might not be accurate, but we may as well monitor as best we can."

Jack marveled at Martha's ability to reason and converse with that level of coherency while the Doctor was still in such a precarious state. Maybe the words helped her to maintain her focus, or maybe she was so accustomed to these sorts of medical situations that she was able to disconnect herself somehow, put feelings aside and fix all of her attention on what needed to be done. He wondered how long it would last. Martha was a strong person, but he didn't think anyone could maintain that kind of dispassion indefinitely. Not anyone with a heart, and hers was brimful of compassion, although she could hide it well if she wanted or needed to.

He watched as Inman took the leads from the portable EKG on the right and plugged the connector into a port below a computer monitor mounted on the wall, then turned the monitor on. A set of reassuring and regular blips appeared on the screen. That helped to calm Jack somewhat. At least something in the Doctor's body was functioning properly now.

Inman turned to a well-stocked cabinet behind her and retrieved a blood pressure cuff, but when she went to put the cuff on the Doctor, Martha said, "Wait. Let me do that. You take over bagging."

Inman looked a bit puzzled but did as Martha asked, the two of them swapping sides of the bed. Jack wondered what was bothering Martha until he saw how carefully and gently she positioned the cuff, trying to avoid the various wounds but inevitably having to settle for covering a few of them. He winced at the thought of the Doctor's heavily injured arm being squeezed by the cuff, but he supposed it was necessary, and as Martha had already pointed out, he wasn't awake to feel it.

Once Martha had gotten the cuff positioned to her satisfaction and had connected and activated it, she took a moment to look at the numbers that were now displayed along with the graph of the EKG. "At least BP is still right around where it's been so far. I was hoping it would've come up by now with the IV." She turned back to the Doctor and gently pinched a bit of skin on his stomach. Jack watched as the resulting fold of skin very slowly stretched smooth again. "He's still somewhat dehydrated too."

She drew in and blew out a long, deep breath, then glanced up at Inman and asked, "Still not breathing?" Inman stopped to check, shook her head no, then put the mask back over the Doctor's nose and mouth and continued to squeeze the bag. Martha crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. After a long moment, she said somewhat hesitantly, "It has to be something to do with the respiratory bypass. Maybe his body doesn't switch back to normal respiration until the reserves are depleted."

"But his oxygen saturation was dropping," Inman said. "Wouldn't that indicate his system was depleted?"

"Possibly, but it also might mean his body was ramping back the use of oxygen to stretch the reserves. We might've waited too long to bag him." An expression of frustration tinged with guilt fluttered over her face. "I really don't want to have to put him on a vent. That might simply prolong the situation indefinitely." Her mouth quirked to the side and her eyebrows drew together. Probably thinking. Or trying not to cry. Jack couldn't quite see if there was a glimmer of tears in her eyes. He hoped not. He didn't want Martha to be overwhelmed. If she'd come to the end of her ability to cope, that would probably mean there was nothing left to be done.

Her lips quickly returned to a grim line, though, and her eyebrows relaxed and lifted. "Stop bagging him," she told Inman. "We need to make sure his bypass system is completely exhausted."

Inman hesitated a moment but did as Martha asked, removing the mask from the Doctor's face. At least she was complying with Jack's instruction to do whatever Martha told her to do. She had to ask questions, though. Of course she did. "How do we know how long to wait?" She didn't sound as though she were criticizing or objecting, though. That was good. Jack probably would've lost his temper otherwise, and that would've resulted in shouting at the very least, or removing Inman from the room altogether, with physical force if needed. And that would've been a loss of control that would do nothing to help the Doctor.

Martha sighed and shrugged. "We'll just have to watch for signs of cyanosis. I don't want to take it that far, but we need to figure out what's going on with the bypass."

Inman nodded, a concerned look on her face, but she didn't say anything. She did, however, remain poised to put the mask back on the Doctor at a moment's notice.

Martha took the Doctor's hand in her own, gently spreading his fingers across her palm and taking hold of his wrist with her other hand to stabilize the limb. She was watching the pulse-oximeter with what seemed to be professional detachment judging from her neutral facial expression, but there was something altogether different evident in the way the thumb of the hand encircling his wrist was rubbing slightly back and forth.

Martha called out a count as the oxygen levels dipped lower. When she reached eighty-four percent, Inman said, "I'm starting to see discoloration around his mouth."

Martha nodded but didn't look up. "The same on his fingertips. Let's give it a bit longer." She didn't resume her count, but said instead, "Come on, Doctor. Don't make me stick a tube down your throat. I'll do it if I have to, but I don't think you're going to like it."

Jack leaned forwards a bit, trying to see whatever this discoloration was that Martha and Inman were talking about. The Doctor's lips certainly looked much paler than they had been, and Jack thought he could detect a faint, bluish tinge there. That couldn't be good.

"All right," Martha said, defeat in her voice. "Let's go ahead and–" She stopped short and flinched as the Doctor's back arched off the bed and he drew in a huge, shuddering breath of air. He slumped back to the bed, still apparently unconscious, but he was breathing again, chest quickly rising and falling.

After a moment of startled silence, Jack realized his own breathing was quick and sharp, his heart pounding in sympathy. He laid a hand to his chest and blew out a relieved breath.

Martha said shakily, "All right, then. There we go. Lungs working again." She hadn't let go of his hand, was in fact gripping it tightly. She had to relax her hand a bit to get a look at the oximeter again. "Oxygen levels coming back up. Cyanosis resolving." She continued to watch the device for another long moment, then very carefully and deliberately laid the Doctor's hand back on the bed.

"Okay. We've got circulation and respiration covered." She sounded relieved, obviously, but Jack thought he could also detect a struggle to remain calm and collected. She'd been rattled. She looked up with a slight frown knitted between her eyebrows, but her gaze was directed at Inman instead of Jack. That annoyed him slightly, but he kept his attention on what Martha was saying, grasping at every bit he could understand.

"Let's give the saline a little longer to start working on the dehydration and blood pressure. It may just be that his system is so depleted it's going to take more volume than it would for a human." She paused a moment, looking as though she were ticking off some kind of mental list. "It wouldn't hurt to add a nasal cannula for oxygen either. I'm not sure that my recalibration of the pulse oximeter is completely accurate. Probably not, given his physical state."

Inman nodded and pulled a package from a drawer, which she tore open to pull out the tubing inside. She connected one end to the oxygen tank, and handed the other to Martha, who gently lifted the Doctor's head to ease the looped end of the tubing down to his ears. She settled the two small prongs that delivered the oxygen at the bottom of his nose and reached behind his head for a little adjustment to snug the apparatus tight. Then she nodded to Inman, who opened the valve on the oxygen tank.

Martha paused for a moment, considering the Doctor with a studiously calm look on her face, before she said, "Okay, on to the injuries. We'll need to irrigate all of the wounds before we redress them. I didn't take the time to do that at the hospital, just superficially cleaned them and applied disinfectant. We're going to have to do a very thorough job of it because I don't think we can risk giving him any antibiotics. No telling how that would affect him."

Inman nodded, then asked, "How serious is the burn on his hand?" She seemed to be concentrating on current needs instead of peppering Martha with questions about the Doctor's physiology. Wise choice. Jack didn't want to hear it right now. Agitation was still bubbling under the veneer of relief at the Doctor's breathing again.

"I'd say on the high end of second degree," Martha replied. "It might need some debridement."

Jack was beginning to feel entirely useless and extraneous as he listened to the exchange. He supposed he could offer to help clean and bandage the wounds, but he wasn't sure he wanted to see the full extent of the damage to the Doctor's body. He had to admit that Inman was far more qualified for the task, both in terms of professional expertise and emotional detachment.

Inman and Martha both continued talking back and forth, but the words were blurring together now, and Jack stopped trying to comprehend them. His focus wavered and he felt suddenly tired, having to blink his eyes rapidly to keep them open.

He started a bit when Martha abruptly shifted her attention to him and said, "Jack, are you okay?" She had a concerned expression on her face.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, even though he was anything but. He was feeling decidedly lightheaded from all the stress and whirl of emotion, and his stomach seemed to want to rebel on him, despite not having anything in it. He didn't want to be the cause of any distraction, though. "I'll just give you some room to work," he added, forcing his voice to calm clarity as he walked carefully behind Inman, resisting the urge to grab onto her to steady himself. He managed to keep himself composed, though, and headed towards the door. He knew Martha probably wouldn't need him until much later, after the Doctor had been tended to and settled. He should probably go and get a bit of rest and collect himself, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. So he stayed, leaning against the doorframe for support, his arms folded across his chest against the chill and slight trembling he felt. He resigned himself to watching and waiting, although he wasn't certain what he should be hoping for now.


	8. Adverse Reactions

Chapter 8 – "Adverse Reactions"

Martha briefly closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She was starting to feel the burden of being the supposed Time Lord expert, but he was still far beyond a mystery to her, in more ways than one. She had only a handful of clues, and that was nothing but the merest hint of who and what he was. She was flying in the dark with very little to light the way, feeling as though she could lose control of the situation at any moment.

She'd do whatever she had to do in order to save him, though, even if she had to resort to blind guesses. She'd certainly done that already, especially with getting him breathing again. It had felt a bit like insanity, especially when his fingers had started going blue, but at least it had worked. She was still a bit shaky from the risk she had taken and the Doctor's sudden return to spontaneous respiration, but she knew she should focus on the success and not allow herself to consider how close she had been to failing him. Her confidence was wearing thin as it was, although she thought she'd been doing a good job of not showing it. She needed to keep going the same way now. There was still so much more to attend to before she could find a quiet corner and fall apart.

While Sara gathered the supplies they would need to tend to the Doctor's wounds, she leaned over him, pulled a penlight out of her jacket pocket, lifted one eyelid and shone the light into his eye. He jerked away from her and rolled his head to the side, moaning and muttering in a hoarse whisper, "Don't. Please don't."

Her breath caught in her throat. She gently laid a hand on his chest and said soothingly, "It's okay, Doctor. You're safe now. It's Martha. You're back at Torchwood."

He turned his head towards her and opened his eyes just a crack. "Torchwood?" he whispered. "Martha?"

"Yes, I'm here," she replied, tears springing into the corners of her eyes. She couldn't help it. She was overwhelmingly relieved that he recognized her this time. His reaction in the helicopter had terrified her.

"But–" He broke off as he gagged and his body writhed. She hesitated a moment, her heart suddenly pounding, not sure what was happening to him. Then she saw the correlation between this and a human response. Hopefully this was one of the things that were essentially the same.

The tears receded in the need for action. She moved down the bed a bit and reached across him to grab his far arm, then rolled him towards her onto his side. She wondered again at how light he was, deeply disturbed by what could've caused that kind of weight loss when his physical appearance couldn't possibly account for it all.

He gagged again, then vomited a large volume of clear liquid onto the floor. She held on to his shoulder with one hand and leaned over to press her other forearm into the middle of his back to support him as she waited to be sure he was done. There was a pause as he panted and shivered, then another gush of liquid. His body shuddered once more, then went limp. She carefully eased him onto his back. He'd lost consciousness again, but she was feeling a ridiculous amount of relief that he'd awoken even for a moment.

She ignored the mess for a moment in favor of checking the vital sign monitor and the secondary EKG. His hearts were beating strongly in the odd double rhythm she'd first heard what seemed so long ago at the Royal Hope before the Moon. His pulses were a bit slower than she'd ever known them to be, but she supposed that was to be expected. He'd been through a lot. She was quite frankly amazed he hadn't regenerated. She quashed a stray thought that in his condition, maybe he wouldn't be able to do so at all.

Sara's voice provided a needed distraction. "It looks like water," she said with a hint of confusion.

Martha looked over to see Sara standing up next to the splattered mess. She must've been trying to determine what it was the Doctor had heaved up. It was quite a considerable amount of liquid. Martha couldn't figure why there'd be so much water or why the Doctor's body had felt the need to expel it, unless…

She'd noticed a microscope and a rack of vials on a counter next to a computer terminal in the corner earlier. She walked over to it and located a small box of blank slides, pulling one out and returning to the puddle on the floor. She held one end of the slide between her fingers and pressed the other end very gingerly against the wetness. She didn't need to analyze it just yet, not if her suspicion was correct. She shook the excess moisture off, leaving just a bit of a smear on the glass. Then she stood and waved the slide carefully back and forth until it dried, leaving a telltale whitish film behind. "I think it's saline," she said as she glanced over at the IV bag with a frown.

"You think it's from the IV?" Sara asked, confusion still evident in her voice.

It was nothing more than conjecture to say that was the source, but Martha couldn't think of anything else that made sense. "Possibly. His system might not have been able to tolerate the salinity for some reason and had to flush it out." Judging from the amount of liquid on the floor, though, it didn't look liked his body had purged all the fluid that had gone in, which was good. He couldn't afford to get any more dehydrated.

"We'll stop it for now just to be on the safe side," she added. Yet another guess, but she didn't want there to be another incident of vomiting, particularly not if it was his body's way of coping with something that shouldn't be there to begin with. She took one of the small, plastic clips hanging from the infusion line and used it to clamp the line shut, then disconnected it from the hub taped to the inside of the Doctor's forearm.

"But he _vomited_ the saline," Sara said, persistent in her desire to understand. "At least, I assume he has a stomach down there, and not something else."

Martha sighed and laid her hand on the Doctor's chest, feeling the gentle evidence of breathing underneath her fingertips. Inhale, exhale, pause. That's how she needed to proceed, one careful breath at a time, but it was so very difficult when she felt every ounce of the heavy burden of being the one entrusted with his survival. She allowed herself a few moments to collect herself, then slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and focused her attention on Sara.

"He has a stomach. He eats and drinks like a human." She couldn't help but feel that his humanity was all part of an illusion, one she'd been all too willing to believe when she'd first met him and accepted his invitation for just one trip. A part of her had been scared silly, so she supposed paying more attention to his human aspects had been a way to keep that fear at bay.

"Is that his body's usual way of purging toxins?" Sara asked.

"I really don't know," Martha replied. She sighed heavily. Everything would really be so much easier if she'd managed to find that book on Time Lord anatomy the Doctor had told her was somewhere in the TARDIS library when they'd been traveling together.

"I'm sorry," Sara said. "I shouldn't be asking so many questions. It's just that I haven't dealt with any live aliens yet, at least not ones that needed medical attention. He looks so _human_. I have to keep reminding myself that he's not."

"Yeah. Takes a bit of getting used to," Martha said quietly. She wished she'd had half of Sara's insight when she'd first met the Doctor or that she'd opened her eyes sooner than she had. Might've saved her a lot of frustration and heartache. But then she might not have stayed with him as long as she had, and that would've been a huge regret for her. She liked to think it would've been a loss for him as well.

She looked sadly down at the Doctor, then pulled her hands out of her pockets and clapped them softly together. She wasn't doing any good standing there looking at him and reflecting on the past. "Right. Unless he wakes up again and gives us something to go on, we'll proceed as we discussed. We should probably…" She paused, swallowed. She didn't want to think about pulling any more blood from his body, but it had to be done. "We should draw blood to do some tests. There are a few things I might be able to tell from that."

Then she turned to look at Jack for the first time since he'd moved away from the Doctor's bedside. Her eyes widened in shock. "Jack!" He was pale and sweating, jammed up against the doorway with his entire body rigid.

He flinched at the sound of his name, then the tension rushed out his of body, and he starting sliding down the doorframe towards the floor. She somehow managed to catch him before he got all the way there, and with Sara's help, got him seated in a chair with his head between his knees.

"What happened?" he mumbled between heaving breaths.

"You almost passed out." She sat down in another chair Sara had pulled over for her, put her hand on Jack's back, and leaned over to get a look at his face. The color was coming back now. That was good. She'd been afraid for a moment she was either going to have another patient on her hands, or a dead body to agonize over until he came back to life. It didn't matter that she knew he wouldn't stay dead. It still pained her, the dying and the being dead and the coming back to life. All of it.

He tried to sit up, but she shoved his head back down again. "Just sit there for a bit longer," she said impatiently.

She waited until his respiration evened out, then took her hand off his back. He sat up cautiously and blinked his eyes slowly. "Sorry. I think I forgot to breathe for a minute."

She took a close look at his face and saw lines of exhaustion there, much worse than the last time she'd seen him. She'd been so focused on the Doctor that she hadn't noticed. "When was the last time you slept properly?"

He shook his head slightly as he said, "I don't need much sleep. You know that, Martha."

She wasn't satisfied with his answer, was quite annoyed with him, in fact. He'd once bragged to her that due to his superior fifty-first century biology, he could go for several days with nothing but catnaps and be just fine. And of course he'd made a lascivious comment about stamina. This was nowhere near fine, even if she took the effects of stress into account.

"It was before the Doctor disappeared, wasn't it?" she asked accusingly. She doubted he'd slept at all during the night she'd spent with him. They hadn't spoken to each other the entire time they were in his bed, but every time she'd stirred, either his eyes had been open or his breathing had been too quick for someone sleeping. He started to say something, but she cut him off. "Don't lie to me. It was, wasn't it?"

He didn't say anything right away, and she thought he was going to deny it, but then he nodded.

She barely reined in her first reaction, which was to tell him in no uncertain words what an idiot he was, but that was hardly productive. It would just be her venting her own pent-up anger about what had been done to the Doctor. Jack didn't deserve that kind of treatment. She gently squeezed his hand and said, "You need to get some sleep, Jack."

He shook his head again, more emphatically this time. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You can't keep this up. You'll make yourself ill." Maybe she would tell him he was an idiot after all.

"Don't worry. It won't kill me. It'll be a long time yet before I die from lack of sleep."

It was probably meant as a joke, but she didn't find it the slightest bit funny. It disturbed her deeply to think he probably knew from personal experience what it was like to die from the effects of sleep deprivation. How many horrible ways had he already died? How many ways _were_ there to die?

She swallowed, cleared her throat. "That may be so, but in the meantime, you'll be practically useless. You need to at least sit down and rest. Have something to eat. I'm betting you've hardly eaten in all that time, either." She didn't give him a chance to respond, saying with exasperation, "Don't bother to answer that." She sighed and shook her head at him. "Let's see if we can find something around here that's at least vaguely edible."

"No, it's okay. I'm not sure I could bring myself to even touch food right now." She could understand that. She didn't think anything stood a chance of getting past the lump in her throat, much less navigating the knots her guts were twisted into.

He started to get up a bit unsteadily as he said, "You need to stay here. I'll just go and sit at my desk, maybe put my head down and close my eyes for a bit. But you'd better come and get me if anything changes."

"Of course I will. But you're going to let me help you up to your office." She grabbed him around the waist as he wavered on his feet.

"No. You need to stay with the Doctor," he protested.

"Sara can look after him for a few minutes," she replied, although part of her didn't want to leave, even for a moment. She knew Sara would call for her if anything changed, though. Jack's office wasn't that far. He looked as if he were going to object again, so she added sternly, "The last thing I want is you taking a header and splitting your head open. I might just have to kill you to save myself the bother of stitching you up."

He glared at her, but she gave him her best no-nonsense stare and pulled his arm over her shoulders. He glanced back towards the Doctor, then said sharply, "What?"

Martha quickly looked around to see what was going on, thinking perhaps there had been some alteration to the Doctor's condition, but he remained still and silent. Sara, however, was goggling at both of them. Belatedly, Martha realized what this conversation must sound like to her.

Jack blew out a breath of annoyance. "No, I'm not an alien, if that's what you're thinking. I'm human. Mostly. Sort of." He sighed. "I have this tendency not to stay dead. It's a long story. Well, not so long, but sort of … complicated. I'll tell you later."

Sara nodded, but was still looking at Jack as if he'd sprouted another head. It must be quite a shock to discover the man you've been working with for months could come back from the dead. At least Martha had found out about it first thing when she'd met him, and even then it had been disconcerting, to say the least.

"Stop looking at me like that," Jack said with obvious irritation.

Sara blinked several times and shook her head slightly. "Right. Sorry." She took a deep breath and straightened, then faced Martha and asked in a calm and steady voice, "Would you like me to go ahead and do the blood draw?"

Part of Martha dearly wanted to delegate that task to Sara – the thought of putting yet another needle into the Doctor made her a bit queasy – but she worried that the Doctor would revive again and be understandably agitated, if not downright terrified if he didn't see a familiar face. "I'd rather you waited for me," she finally said, then added, "in case he wakes up again."

"Of course," Sara replied. "I'll just keep an eye on his vitals and give you a shout if anything changes."

"Thank you," Martha said, and she genuinely was very grateful for the support of another person who could help her with the medical aspects of the situation.

"Okay, let's go," she said to Jack, tugging at his side. He was leaning on her quite a bit, and unlike the Doctor in his current condition, his weight definitely matched his height.

They didn't say anything else until she'd gotten him settled behind his desk. He spread his hands on the desktop and stared at his fingers, seemingly lost in some memory or simply so exhausted he could hardly think any longer. "I'm fine now," he said without looking up at her.

"Really?" she said quietly. "Because I'm not."

She leaned over to give him a brief hug around the shoulders, and he rested his head against her chest for a moment. "Neither am I," he said with a sigh.

"Rest," she said as she pulled away.

"Yes, ma'am." He folded his arms on the desktop and laid his head sideways on top of them, then blinked sleepily as she crept quietly over to the door. She stood watching a moment as his eyes closed and he began to snore softly. A fond smile tugged at her mouth, then she turned and headed back to the medbay.

* * *

Jack had the vague feeling there was something he was supposed to be doing, something – someone? – he was horribly worried about, but he couldn't quite…

His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in his chair. His hands gripped the edge of his desk and his gaze darted around the room until it came to rest on Ianto, sitting in a chair against the wall reading a book.

"Where's the Doctor?" Jack snapped.

Ianto carefully marked his page in the book – with an actual bookmark, no dog-eared pages for him – and folded it shut on his lap. "I see you've woken up out of sorts as usual."

Jack glared at him. "Where's – the – Doctor?" he asked again, slowly, enunciating each word.

Ianto was nonplussed, damn him. "He's in the medbay, right where you left him. Not much change since you fell asleep. I'll have Martha come up and fill you in."

"Never mind. I'll go find her myself," Jack said in annoyance. He really didn't want to sit here, even for the short amount of time it would take for Ianto to go to the medbay and return with Martha.

"Jack," Ianto said gently, stepping over to him as he started to get up from his chair. "Just stay there. You still look like hell. I'll get you something to eat and tell Martha you're awake. Please, just stay put, okay? Don't make Martha angry?"

Jack couldn't help but snort. He could well imagine Martha issuing stern instructions to Ianto and Ianto saying, "Yes, ma'am," to everything she told him. "Okay, I'll wait," he conceded reluctantly. Oh, but he was tired of waiting.

"Toast and tea?" Ianto asked as he turned to go, but it wasn't really a question. Ianto knew good and well that's what he always had to eat when he first woke up, no matter what time of the day or night it happened to be. But ever-polite, Ianto never assumed.

"Yeah, that'll be great." As he blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes, he realized he didn't know what time of the day or night it was. It should've taken hours for Ianto and Gwen to return from Crickhowell, considering the work they would've had to do before they could leave. He glanced at the old, silver clock on his desk. It had stopped ticking. He swallowed and told himself firmly that it wasn't an omen. "Wait," he called after Ianto. "How long have I been asleep?"

"About ten hours, give or take," he replied calmly.

"You let me sleep for ten hours?" he asked incredulously and with a large helping of irritation. No wonder he had a cramp in his neck. His arms were tingling, too, as the bloodflow returned to them. "Why the hell did no one wake me up?"

Ianto tilted his head to the side and gave him a very familiar look of patient tolerance. "Martha? Remember? Angry? She told me not to wake you. She said she'd let me know if she thought it was necessary, and she apparently hasn't thought it necessary. So _please_ sit down and wait for her to come to you so she won't deem it necessary to string me up by any important bits."

Jack sighed. "Okay, fine, you win. But tell her I'm awake before you bother with getting me anything to eat."

A long-suffering shake of the head from Ianto as he left the room. "I was already planning on doing that."

Ten hours? How the hell could he have slept for that long sitting at his desk with his head on his arms? Then again, when he went as long as he had without real sleep, his body tended to rebel and send him into a nearly coma-like state at the first solid opportunity. He supposed he'd managed to let go of worry and fear just enough to allow his body to have the rest it craved now that they'd at least found the Doctor and he was safe at Torchwood.

Jack looked at the silent clock again, hesitated for a moment, then picked it up and wound it. It started ticking again without any problem. He blew out a relieved breath and set it carefully back down. He thought about trying to refit the missing piece of the casing, but then decided he'd rather keep it in his pocket for the time being. Not that he was superstitious or anything. Well, okay, maybe he was. Sometimes. This was one of those times.

That decision made, he spun his chair around once, stretching his arms over his head and letting out a growl of frustration. If Martha didn't get here in the next two minutes…

"Hi there, Jack." She smiled softly at him from the doorway. "How are you…" She stopped herself. "Well, I know you're not all right, but do you at least feel a little less like you're going to fall over in your tracks?"

"Yeah. I guess you were right," he admitted sheepishly, then pressed on to far more urgent matters. "How's the Doctor doing?"

Martha didn't answer right away, which raised his level of apprehension. She took a moment to pull Ianto's chair over to the other side of the desk and sit down. He noticed she'd found a white lab coat to put on over her UNIT uniform, and she also taken her hair out of its ponytail and neatly combed it back from her face. That would seem to indicate things had been relatively quiet while he was asleep, but he really didn't like the drawn look on her face. "He's starting to get worse," she said quietly.

"What? How?" He struggled to keep his voice from turning into a shout. He was nowhere near a mean enough bastard to yell at Martha, especially as haggard and worried as she looked. He couldn't keep a touch of accusation out of his voice, though, as he added, "Why didn't you wake me up?"

She sighed, but it seemed more out of weariness than frustration with Jack's attitude. Her voice was soft but steady as she said, "There isn't anything you can do. I don't even know much more than I did when we first got here. I took a look at his blood, and it's not even remotely like the sample I had a quick look at back when I was travelling with him. There were dozens of different blood cells in that sample, but I think some of them are completely missing now. The concentration of what's left is nowhere near what it should be, and there's something else in there that I don't think should be there at all. And now he's developed a fever. Whether from the infection or something else, I'm not sure."

"And there's nothing you can do about it?" This time he was careful to keep his tone as neutral as possible and seemed to have succeeded. Either that, or Martha was too tired and distracted to notice.

"We can keep the fever under control with a cooling blanket, but I'm not even sure if we should be doing that much. The elevated temperature might be the only thing fighting the infection. But I have to be concerned about how it might affect his brain as well."

Jack didn't even want to begin to contemplate anything happening to the Doctor's brain, so he focused instead on the injuries to his body. Some kind of sick curiosity made him ask, "So how many times…" He swallowed. "How many wounds are there?"

"I haven't counted them up. A lot." She pressed her lips together and lowered her eyes briefly. She seemed to be concentrating on composing herself. After a minute, she looked back up. He was still getting an overall sense of anxiety from her, from the tension in her shoulders, the redness in her eyes and the perpetual frown on her face. There was also simply a knowing feeling in him, a recognition in another of what he himself was experiencing.

"I'm concerned about the wounds themselves, obviously," Martha finally continued, "but I'm also worried about the blood loss. I don't know how much the Plasmavores took from him or how much his body has been able to replace. I'm not even sure he's capable of any significant recovery at the moment. It's not as if we have any Time Lord blood to transfuse him with, and you saw his body's reaction to normal saline. I just don't know what else to do other than wait for him to wake up and tell me what he needs."

Jack sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and looked up at the ceiling. "I hate waiting," he said quietly.

"I know. I do too."

There was a moment of silence, then Martha changed the subject. "Sara's a very good doctor, you know."

Jack looked back down at her and frowned. "I know that. That's why I hired her." Why was Martha on about Inman right now? It was just about the last thing he wanted to talk about.

"Then why do you call her Inman?"

"Because that's her name," he said, unable to keep his tone from taking on a bit of sarcasm.

"No, I mean why don't you call her by her first name? Everyone else here is on a first-name basis. Why not her?"

He started to answer, then realized he didn't have a reasonable response to give. He closed his mouth and looked away from Martha, turning his head towards the window but not seeing beyond the glass.

"Is it because that might be admitting she's not just a temporary fill-in for Owen, that he's not coming back?"

Jack sniffed and blinked back the tears that sprang to his eyes. Owen's life had been yet another snuffed out far too soon, sacrificed to the work of Torchwood. "I don't know. I suppose that may be part of it." And then there was the fact that he himself had outlived so many others that it was easier not to let most of them get too close. He had to let some past his defenses – that was a large part of what anchored him to his sanity and humanity – but he limited it as much as possible. Calling Inman by her last name kept her at a distance. Most of the people who came to work for Torchwood ended up with their lives considerably shortened. She might well be one of them, and they'd find themselves looking for another doctor before she had a chance to really become part of the team.

Ianto returned with the promised tea and toast just then, and as he settled the tray on Jack's desk, he said to Martha, "Sara wants to speak with you." Jack noted his use of Inman's first name and winced a bit. Ianto's mortality meant he only had to take the normal human care of holding people at a distance until he felt comfortable with them.

"Did she say what she wanted?" Martha asked as she stood up. Jack had automatically started to bite into a piece of toast, but he put it down at the worried tone of Martha's voice. Ianto hadn't made Inman's request sound urgent, but then Ianto could be a "it's just a flesh wound" sort of guy.

"No." Ianto replied. "But it didn't seem to be an emergency."

"Okay, that's good. Thank you, Ianto." She turned to leave the office, then stopped to glare back at Jack. She pointed a finger at him. "Eat," she said sternly.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. That put a bit of a smile on her face. About the best he could hope for under the present circumstances.

He waited until she was almost to the stairs past the work stations, then with a warning look at Ianto in case he was thinking of stopping him, grabbed a piece of toast and followed her. There was no way he was going to sit here genteelly sipping his tea without seeing the Doctor first. The secondhand report from Martha wasn't enough. He needed to see for himself, even as grim as the situation apparently still was.


	9. Exsanguination

Chapter 9 – "Exsanguination"

Martha rubbed her eyes as she paused for a moment before entering the hallway leading to the medbay. She hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in the past day and a half, had just about paced a hole in the floor next to the Doctor's bed, and was practically cross-eyed from the search of the TARDIS library she and Gwen had made looking for the elusive book on Time Lord anatomy. She was beginning to think the Doctor had made that up to keep her from asking what he considered impertinent questions about his biology.

As she started walking towards the medbay again, she heard the sound of a footstep on metal back in the direction of Jack's office and turned to see Jack following her. "I told you to eat," she said in exasperation.

"I _am_ eating," he replied impatiently. He bit into the piece of toast he was holding to demonstrate.

"I meant in your office," she muttered, but she didn't have the energy to be adamant about it. "All right then. But keep your crumbs out of the medbay."

He gave her a salute with what was left of the toast. He was trying to make her smile. Bless him for that. Without a bit of humor, situations like the one they were in could become unbearable. Among medical personnel, it was often gallows humor, but that was only when you didn't know the patient personally. She was grateful for a different approach, no matter how small the gesture might be.

She entered the medbay to find everything much as she had left it, the Doctor lying quiescent on the bed, vitals not significantly fluctuating. She and Sara had managed to recalibrate the pulse-oximeter that belonged to the medbay's vital signs monitoring station and had added a tympanic temperature monitor that fitted into the Doctor's ear. They'd also put a thoracic transducer belt around his chest to measure respiration since they'd seen that respiration and blood oxygen saturation weren't necessarily linked in his case. With the final addition of the second portable EKG device affixed with a bit of hook and loop tape to the side of the screen, they had one central place to track everything.

The cooling blanket seemed to be doing its job. The Doctor's temperature was down a few degrees below human normal now. She still didn't know exactly what normal was for him, even after the _Pentallian_. He'd told her she'd made a good guess then, but she'd never followed up on it for some reason. Just one small detail lost in the crazy whirlwind that was life with the Doctor.

Sara was sitting at the computer terminal next to the microscope in the corner, her back to the door. "Something you wanted to talk to me about?" Martha asked with a mix of dread and battered hope. She was steeling herself for something negative or at best vaguely useful only if you stood on your head and squinted crosseyed at it, so she was momentarily taken aback when Sara turned towards her with a completely unexpected expression on her face – eyes that were bright from something other than lack of sleep, a hint of a smile that wasn't faked, the tense excitement of discovery. Oh, but those were wonderful things to see.

Sara nodded her head eagerly. "Earlier you told me we'd just have to do what we could to treat symptoms until the Doctor wakes up and tells us what we should do." Sara had folded her hands in her lap as she spoke, but Martha could tell they were itching to move. She shoved her own hands into the pockets of her lab coat. It was the only way she'd been keeping herself from biting her fingernails to the quick during her pacing sessions.

"Yes, that's right," she responded, her voice slow and careful, struggling to keep a spark of hope at bay. She didn't trust that it wouldn't be snuffed out almost as soon as it was ignited. "But I doubt that's going to happen anytime soon. He hasn't shown the slightest sign of regaining consciousness in the past ten hours, and nothing about his condition has improved enough to make that seem probable."

Sara raised one finger, her eyebrows lifting slightly as she spoke. A memory of the Doctor's face wearing that same expression flashed in front of Martha's eyes. She couldn't help but smile faintly before the recollection dissolved. She realized she hadn't heard what Sara had just said. "I'm sorry, I just…" She shook her head. "Say that again?"

Sara gave her a gently understanding look, accepting of Martha's distraction instead of being annoyed by it, then said, "I think I've found an alternative to using saline IV solution. There was an entry in Doctor Harper's medical logs about a bio-neutral artificial plasma he was working on before he died. He even did a few tests on various aliens that were brought in injured with significant blood loss. It seemed to work quite well. If we can use it to hydrate the Doctor and get his blood pressure up a bit, he might wake up. Here, look." She held her hand out towards the computer screen as she rose to her feet. "No adverse effects regardless of alien biology."

Martha went over and sat down, the tangible possibility of finally being able to do something proactive about the Doctor's condition sharpening the focus that had been blunted by a long stretch of helplessness and frustration. She looked over the file Sara had pulled up. Impressive. Brilliant even. Owen really had been a great loss, and that was only taking his medical expertise into account. As gruff and as crass as he had seemed to her, she knew Jack had respected and relied on him, even had a kind of affection for him.

"Looks like it might work," she said as she turned back to Sara, forcing herself to be calm and practical even though the overtaxed emotional side of her wanted to weep for joy. That would be an overreaction and entirely premature. "I don't suppose there's any left over from Owen's experiments?" she asked hesitantly. It was a complicated formula and would take time and resources that probably weren't immediately at hand to synthesize the plasma from scratch.

"There is. I already got it out of storage. Had to make sure it was really there and not just an error in the inventory database." Sara pointed to the counter on the other side of the room where three IV bags were laid out.

Martha stood and slowly walked over to take a look. She ran her fingers across the surface of the bags. Hope in the form of three units of faintly pink liquid. "Okay." She took a deep breath and instinctively shifted from thinking into action mode. "Do you have a rapid infuser?" Sara nodded. "Let's use it, then. He's been in this condition long enough."

While Sara set up the infuser, Martha shifted the cooling blanket down the Doctor's body far enough to get access to his bruised and bandaged arm so she could flush the IV cannula. Sara had anticipated her need and handed her a syringe full of the plasma, which Martha inserted into the IV hub. She pressed the plunger slowly, hoping the line was still clear. The liquid injected smoothly. She breathed a sigh of relief, also silently grateful that she'd used a large-bore catheter from the outset. She'd had no idea what she might need to administer to the Doctor, so she'd gone with a multitude of caution. Now that choice was preventing having to stick yet another needle into the Doctor.

She quickly glanced over and saw Jack, standing stony-face and silent in the doorway. He'd better not pass out on her again. She dismissed the thought. Just her mind getting a little bit crazy with lack of sleep and slightly dizzy with the promise of hope. He'd had plenty of sleep, had eaten a bit, and looked as well as could be expected.

As soon as the infuser was ready and loaded with two bags of the precious artificial plasma, Martha connected it to the IV hub. Then with a bit of trepidation, she turned the machine on, starting at the lowest setting so they could monitor the Doctor for any complications before increasing the flow. Blood pressure went up slightly, but everything else remained stable, so she slowly but steadily nudged the rate up to maximum. Then she stood back and fixed her attention on the vital signs monitor, ready to turn the flow down or shut it off entirely if necessary.

Blood pressure continued to creep upwards, accompanied by a slight increase in heart rate and respirations. She didn't dare let down her guard, though. He still might have a negative reaction to the plasma, or his body might expel it the way it had the saline.

The first unit finished transfusing and Sara switched the equipment over to the second unit. Martha shifted her attention back to the Doctor, stepping closer to watch for any sign of his regaining consciousness. Nothing. Not yet. But there was still one more unit of plasma after this one. She prayed it would be enough, that it would have the effect they were hoping for, that they weren't doing any damage in a clumsy attempt to help.

Two units down. Sara had already hung the third bag in the infuser in place of the empty first bag and switched over to it as soon as the second was finished. Blood pressure was now well above what it had been at any point since Martha had first arrived at the hospital in Crickhowell. Possibly it had been nothing more than the urge to expel the saline that had pulled him back to consciousness before. Either his body was accepting this infusion but it wasn't providing enough volume, or his body had lost the ability to defend itself from harmful foreign substances by purging them. Her mind was failing to provide any more optimistic possibilities.

The third unit finished transfusing. Blood pressure was holding steady. "Come on, Doctor. Wake up," she muttered, reaching out to rest her fingers against the pulses in his neck as she had done so many times over the past hours. She hadn't really needed to do so with all the monitoring equipment, but there was something about the tactile contact that reassured her. The beating of hearts was such a simple and straightforward sign of life, and she wanted to believe in the old saying that where there's life, there's hope.

Then his blood pressure started to drop slightly. She bit her lip. Maybe his body was simply so depleted of resources that it had been sluggish to respond to the new substance being introduced into his system and was now struggling to remove it. "Please let this work, please, please," she whispered, staring hard at the vital signs monitor, willing the readings to stabilize.

The decrease in blood pressure halted. Her gaze immediately returned to the Doctor's face, and her breath caught as she saw movement there, slight twitches of the facial muscles, eyes turning slowly back and forth beneath their lids. Then he sucked in a huge breath of air, his head straining back into the pillow. She pulled her hand away from his neck and clutched the railing of the bed with both hands.

His eyelids started to flutter, the motions underneath now rapid and chaotically shifting in all directions. His eyes suddenly snapped open, then briefly rolled back under his eyelids before they opened wide again. He blinked hard a few times, then his body jerked and his eyes darted around the room before locking on her. He froze, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps one step shy of hyperventilation. Then a sliver of recognition slid into his eyes. "Martha?" he choked out.

"Yes, it's me. You're safe now." Her voice was shaking, but she struggled to keep it calm, reassuring.

He shuddered and let out a ragged sigh, his body going limp as his eyes closed. For a moment she thought he'd passed out, but then he was looking at her again, clearly and steadily this time. What she saw there – she couldn't even begin to untangle the fractured thoughts and emotions, but instinct interpreted for her, and the wordless meaning it provided made her nauseous and angry at the same time as it terrified her and broke her heart wide open.

She tentatively reached out a hand to smooth back his hair. She'd washed it herself during the past hours, desperate for something to do after the futile search of the TARDIS library, and it was soft and slightly ruffled now, free of the snarls that had been there when he'd been found. He watched her warily, but didn't make a move to stop her, his eyes following the approach of her hand. When she touched him, he drew a sharp breath, grabbed the fingers of her other hand in a weak grasp and whispered, "I… I don't know… I can't–"

Whatever he'd been trying to say was abruptly cut off as he let go of her, turned his head into the pillow and moaned, pain creasing his face. "Doctor? What is it?" she asked urgently, but he only let out a strangled yell in reply.

"Doctor, please." She found a spot free of bandages and risked shaking his shoulder. "Stay with me. We need your help. We don't know what to do to make you better."

He wrenched his eyes open and stared at her with a crazed look. "Make me better?" He barked out a short laugh, then clenched his teeth and groaned again, his eyes squeezing shut against the pain.

"Doctor!" She shook his shoulder a little harder, fighting back the anguished thought that there was nothing that _could_ heal him from the damage that had been caused to his body and possibly to his mind as well. She focused on the physical for the moment. "What's causing the pain? Tell me. How can I stop the pain?" No answer, just jagged breathing and a barely suppressed cry of agony. "Damn it! Tell me what to do!" She grabbed hold of his face with both hands and turned it forcefully towards her.

He flinched hard and stared at her with panic in his eyes. Memories swirled there, dark and terrible. "Stop, please," he muttered in a ragged voice. "Let me go."

For a moment she wondered if he'd slipped back into incoherency, no longer seeing the present but lost in the past. She quickly pulled her hands away from him, held them up so he could see them, see that she meant him no harm, and said softly but firmly, "Tell me what to do."

He closed his eyes and held still for a moment, breathing rapidly in and out of his slightly open mouth, his body quivering with tension. Then his eyes met hers again, this time with a lost and desperate look in them. "Poison," he gasped. "Poison…still in me. The transfusion…too fast, stirred it back up. Have to get it out."

Poison? What was he talking about? Had they poisoned him on top of everything else they'd done to him? Or… A crazy thought leapt into her mind. Was that how they'd died? From what she knew of his metabolic capabilities, it was possible he could've turned his own blood into something lethal to the Plasmavores and obviously dangerous to himself as well. Had he poisoned his own blood to kill them?

"How do we get it out?" she asked, forcing herself to center her attention on what needed doing right now. He'd lapsed into strangled yells and moans, and she had little choice but to grip his shoulders to shake him again. She kept her hands well away from his face, though. "Doctor! How do we get it out?"

When he looked at her this time he was barely holding on to a thread of composure, and his voice trembled as he said, "You have to bleed it out. Get rid of the blood. All of it. My body can replace it, just barely, but you have to get rid of the poison first."

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he serious or was this insane raving? A memory sparked in her mind – the _Pentallian_ , the Doctor telling her to freeze his body to expel the living sun from him, the terror and the panic she felt that she was going to kill him, the leap of faith that gave her the strength to do what he asked, to believe it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. She'd barely known him then. How could she not trust him now?

She gave him a long and unflinching look, meeting his desperation with a confidence she'd managed to dredge up from somewhere inside herself, and slowly nodded. He held himself still for a moment, the effort making his entire body shake. "Thank you," he whispered, then his eyes turned up into his head and an anguished moan came out of him. One hand flailed weakly as if trying to find something to hold onto. She caught his hand, gave it a long, hard squeeze, then pressed it firmly against his chest.

"Sara, I need a large bore needle, biggest you've got," she said, her voice matter-of-fact even though her mind was suddenly gibbering with doubts. What if he was wrong? She'd learned since the _Pentallian_ that he was fallible. What if this was one of the times he was mistaken? But did it matter? The poison might very well kill him if she didn't do something, and it would be a hideously painful death judging from the torment it was already causing him. At least this way it would be quick, no matter how it ended.

"Martha," Jack protested. "You can't. He's out of his mind."

"What else am I supposed to do, Jack?" she snapped as she shot a desperate look over at him. Then she added with vehemence, "He's my patient, my responsibility." Jack looked about to argue, then frowned and nodded acquiescence.

Martha returned her attention to the task at hand. Sara was already assembling a tray of instruments, but paused to look over at Martha. "Do you want me to do it?" she asked quietly.

"No." Martha shook her head. "I'll do it." She had to. She couldn't let anyone else do this for her. For him. _Trust him, just trust him. It's what he wants, whatever happens._

She watched while Sara quickly and efficiently put the tray on a stand, lowered the railing of the bed, and then taped one end of a piece of tubing just inside the rim of a biohazard container on the floor. She handed the other end of the tubing to Martha. The attached needle was the sort of thing normally used for blood donation.

She swallowed hard, afraid her stomach might rebel on her or that she'd lose her nerve. God, she was going to have to stick that thing into his neck, right into his carotid artery. That would be quickest, and speed was what they needed. She somehow managed to pull herself back together, though, and turned towards the Doctor. He'd opened his eyes again and was staring at the needle with naked fear. His breath rattled in and out as his body shook with tremors.

"Jack," she said evenly, astonished her voice hadn't deserted her entirely. "Get over here. I'll need you to hold him down. Jack!" she shouted when he didn't respond. She glanced at him across her shoulder. He was standing there with a pained look of denial on his face. "Jack, please," she said more gently but still firmly. "I need your help."

He nodded slowly without looking at her and stepped up to the far side of the bed. He was silent a moment, struggling in some internal battle, then asked the Doctor shakily, "Where can I touch you that it won't hurt?"

"Doesn't matter. Just do it," the Doctor said through gritted teeth, his eyes locking fiercely with Jack's.

Jack stared at the Doctor in anguish before forcibly pulling his gaze away and looking at Martha. "How should I…?" he stammered. It was almost as if he didn't want to touch the Doctor, was afraid to.

Questions swirled in her head. She irritably shoved them aside and forced herself to look down at the Doctor. He was panting and moaning, eyes once again shut tight, his body twisting under the cooling blanket as if he were trying to literally escape from the pain. She quickly removed the nasal cannula and temperature sensor from the Doctor and tossed them over the top of the bed. They'd only get in the way.

"Pull him towards you a bit. One arm around his chest and pull his head against your shoulder with your other hand. I need access to his neck." She took a quick, sharp breath through her nose. She needed to keep herself focused if she was going to do this.

Jack nodded numbly, took a deep breath and reached across the Doctor's chest, hesitantly laying his hand on the Doctor's side and rolling him a bit to get a firm hold on his upper body. The Doctor jerked hard against the touch and movement, but in his condition, the attempt to pull away was utterly futile. He opened his eyes and looked towards Martha. The expression there was so lost and alone and empty that she couldn't bear to look at it for more than a few seconds. Fortunately Jack was already pressing his hand against the side of the Doctor's head. The Doctor turned his face away and pushed it hard against Jack's shoulder, flinching as he did so, but then he settled. He didn't let up on the pressure against Jack, though, as if he were having to force himself to stay there. Jack rested his chin gingerly on the top of the Doctor's head. "Okay," he said, his voice cracking. "I've got him."

Martha stared at the neck and shoulder stretched out before her, both covered with so many bandages. The vampires had lavished all too much attention there, for obvious reasons. Now she had to follow behind and violate him again. _Don't think about it. Just do it._

She carefully peeled back the edge of the bandage covering a large portion of his neck, exposing skin discolored by disinfectant and bruising, paired puncture wounds scattered over all, but concentrated in a long line that obscenely marked the rapidly pulsating path of his carotid artery. A nauseating image rolled through her mind, fangs sinking into his neck, blood spurting in time with the beats of his hearts. She took a deep breath, then stretched her fingers out to palpate among the wounds in search of the best site to insert the needle.

The instant she touched him, she felt the muscles in his neck bunch together as his body strained to pull away from her. There was a strangled cry muffled against Jack's shoulder. Her heart lurched at the sound but she blocked it out, turned her entire attention to her hands as they pulled the skin on the Doctor's neck taut and slid the needle directly into the artery. She heard a long moan rising into a yell of agony, but kept her concentration locked on taping the needle and tubing down to hold them securely against the straining tendons in his neck.

She took a step back, her vision briefly going out of focus, and heard blood splashing into the bottom of the biohazard container, the sound mixed with Jack muttering, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Was he apologizing for not having found the Doctor sooner, for not having prevented this? _We did everything we could, we tried. We failed._

Her eyes fixed on the fluid running through the tubing. There was something greenish mixed in with the red, some kind of particulate matter. She wondered if it was the poison or something else entirely. Didn't matter. It would all be gone soon. _Let it be quick, let it be over, let it be done._

Alarms sounded on the monitors, frantic beeping matching seconds, seconds crashing together and then jerking to a standstill at the sound of a pair of long, unbroken tones. Martha reached up blindly to silence the monitors, then glanced over at Jack, who was gently lowering the Doctor's upper body back onto the bed. Jack's cheeks were streaked with tears and he clutched his arms tightly around himself as he cleared his throat and said hoarsely, "You need to lower the head of the bed."

"What?" Martha asked, confusion adding an uncomfortable edge to her already turbulent emotions. "Why?"

Instead of explaining, though, Jack said quietly, "Trust me. Just do it."

She fumbled for the bed's controls and pressed the button to lower the top of the bed, watching as the Doctor's head turned a bit towards her with the motion. His eyelids were marginally open, his colorless lips parted a bit. She thought for a moment that he looked peaceful, then she realized it was merely an illusion created by the stillness of a face that had always been so animated. Then there was the sound of more blood dribbling into the biohazard container, and she nearly gagged, finally understanding. Without the pressure caused by the pumping of his hearts, the force of gravity was needed to expel the remaining blood from the Doctor's body.

Martha pressed a hand briefly over her mouth, then lowered it and took a deep breath. "How did you…" she started to ask, but the question died as she saw the horrified look on Jack's face and the sharp, jerky shake of his head. His eyes were unfocussed, and she knew that a terrible memory was stirring in him. She swallowed and looked down, her hands clutching at the edge of the bed. There was such a sense of dread in the room that she felt weighed down, as if she would sink to the floor at any minute. She listened to the sound of dripping blood as it slowed and finally stopped.

Inman's hands moved Martha to the side and pressed a clean, white square of gauze down over the insertion site before pulling up the tape and removing the needle. A hysterical voice inside Martha asked what the point of that was – there was no more blood to hold back – but the stony rationality that was holding her together reminded her that a large needle stuck in his carotid artery would hardly be conducive to holding in the fresh blood his body was going to produce any moment now. _Please let it happen. Please don't let it end like this._

She stared, waiting, but nothing happened. No movement, no sign of life. Her hand strayed to the Doctor's arm and she rested her fingers there. His skin was cool. She tried to convince herself that it didn't mean anything, that his body temperature was lower than that of humans, and he'd been under a cooling blanket too. But she was reminded horribly of a corpse, and the thought rattled her composure. _This isn't right. Something's wrong._

Her eyes flicked backed up to Jack, but there was no reassurance there, only a stricken look of worry spiraling up into panic. "Martha," he said quietly, his voice strained. "I think he's too far gone. He should be regenerating, but…"

"But he's not," she finished for him.

"I don't think he can," Jack whispered, his breathing uneven, his eyes filling with grief.

She looked blankly at him for a long moment, every part of her screaming denial. Something icy slithered through her stomach. "No," she whispered, then she said it again, loudly and with conviction. "No. He's not going to die. Not today. Not if I can do anything about it."

She cast her eyes around the medbay, looking for something to answer to her will. He just needed to be resuscitated. She'd done it before, more than once; she could do it again. But he hadn't been drained of all his blood those other times, only partially on the Moon as well as earlier today. What the hell was she supposed to do now with nothing left in him for his hearts to pump through his arteries and veins? There was no time to attempt to transfuse anything and nothing at hand to use.

Then her eyes fell on the defibrillator. Maybe forcing the muscles of his hearts to contract would cause his body to react and set off whatever process was needed to restore the blood to his system. It was a crazy theory founded on practically nothing, but she couldn't think of anything else to try. She yanked the crash cart over to the bed, pushing Sara gently but firmly out of her way, refusing to look at her for fear of seeing the expression of pity sometimes directed at doctors who refused to acknowledge the finality of death.

She flipped the machine on, then unbuckled the respiration monitoring belt and let the ends drop to the bed on either side of the Doctor so she would have proper access to his chest. She picked up one of the defibrillator paddles and automatically squirted some conductive gel onto it, then grabbed the other paddle and rubbed it against the first as she waited impatiently for the charge to build. A light flashed the machine's readiness. She turned back to the Doctor. "You are _not_ going to die."

One shock. Nothing. Increase the power. _I won't allow it._

Other heart. Still nothing. More power. _Damn it, this isn't right._

Back to the right. Notch the setting higher. _It isn't fair._

Again. Switch. And again. Switch. And again. _Please, dear God, let him live, he needs to live, he has to live._

Just as tears of bitter resignation were beginning to slide down her face, the EKG monitors abruptly flared back into life, marking the wild dance of hearts struggling to beat. She jerked back as the Doctor's body seized in a massive contraction. His head twisted towards her, lines of pain creasing his face. She fumbled the paddles back onto the crash cart.

A flush of color ran beneath his skin, followed by a grotesque wave of desiccation that made his flesh wither and sag against bones now standing out in sharp relief. Then he screamed. Horrible screams, worse than when he was being burned alive by a sun, like nothing she'd ever heard before. Inhuman. Ancient and alien and soaked with unimaginable agony.

She choked back a sob. She wanted to cover her ears with her hands, but she couldn't move. Just as she was beginning to think the sound would drive her to madness, his body went slack, breath coming hard and fast, head twitching from side to side, ragged moans coming from deep within his chest. Moisture began to dew every inch of visible skin. Her own skin prickled as she felt the humidity being sucked out of the air around her and drawn in to the Doctor's body. _Yes, that's it, take what you need, turn this place into a goddamned desert if you have to._

The beads of water were quickly absorbed, and his skin visibly lifted, the flesh rehydrating itself and concealing the angles of his bones once more. A long, tattered sigh rushed out of him, and he was still.

The room was silent apart from the monitors measuring out the signs of life. Two steady heartbeats, slightly more rapid than that of a human. Blood pressure higher than human norms, blood oxygenation pegged at the top of the scale. She wasn't sure how much of it was normal or even vaguely indicative of regained health, but it was life, and it was hope.

She reached out and hesitantly peeled the piece of gauze away from his neck and found the wound she'd made already closing and the other marks on his neck doing likewise. She took a wobbly step backwards, and her foot slipped in something wet. She looked down, saw blood on the floor, overflowing from the biohazard container and running down the drain in the floor. _He could've died. I almost killed him._

She staggered, turned blindly and ran from the room, stumbling and falling to her hands and knees, clutching her stomach as she gagged on bile. She pressed her forehead against the floor, one thought running through her mind over and over again. _He's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive…_


	10. Endurance

Chapter 10 – "Endurance"

Jack's first instinct was to follow Martha, but before he did that he needed to confirm that the Doctor was okay. He needed the reassurance himself, but he also knew Martha would want to know. He didn't blame her in the slightest for leaving the room so abruptly. He understood. Sometimes to keep your sanity intact, you had to put space between yourself and the things you were forced to do.

He stared wide-eyed in apprehension at Inman as she reconnected the monitoring equipment that Martha had removed, then looked over the readouts. Seemingly satisfied with that, she pulled the Doctor's eyelids up to check his pupil response. She glanced up and gave him a nod as she said, "He's stable. As far as I can tell, he's just unconscious at the moment."

Jack started to rub the tears from his face with the back of his hand, then realized his cheeks were dry, their moisture taken to rehydrate the Doctor's shriveled body. He felt a chill run up his spine as he realized that only moments before, the Doctor had looked eerily similar to how he'd looked when the Master had aged him, only without the shrinking caused by the pressure of hundreds of years. His mind predictably jerked away from the memory.

He took a deep breath and nodded stiffly, the past yet again locked back in its place. "I need…" His voice caught in his throat as he looked down at the Doctor. His face was lax now and was free of any obvious signs of pain, but what an agony it must have been for Jack to touch him, much less hold him so close. Jack swallowed and deliberately dragged his eyes back up to Inman. "I should go check on Martha. That is if…"

Inman nodded and said, "I've got him." Her words were calm and certain, the opposite end of the emotional spectrum from where he'd been when he'd said the same words only moments earlier. He trusted that Inman would call for assistance if she needed it, but it still felt like fleeing when he left the room.

He didn't have to go far to find Martha. She'd only made it to the foot of the stairs leading up to the work stations. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hands limp and turned palms upwards on her thighs, her head lowered. Ianto was already there, kneeling beside her with his hand resting on her back. He gave Jack a worried look, then pulled away and stood up as Jack sank down next to her.

"Hey," he said softly, settling onto his knees and leaning over so he could get a look at her face. Another reflection of the recent past. His turn to take care of her.

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice. Her eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion and shining with unshed tears, and she was biting her bottom lip. A shred of profound self-recrimination fluttered over her face and was gone, leaving a pained resolve in its wake. "I need to get back to him," she muttered and started to get to her feet.

He firmly pressed down on her shoulder, stopping her from rising. She glared at him. "Let me go, Jack."

"Martha," he replied firmly. "He's fine. Unconscious, but stable at the moment. He's going to be okay." A bit of the anger drained out of her, but he could see she was still going to be adamant about immediately going back to the medbay. "Practice what you preach, Martha. Go and get some rest before you fall over. Inman's looking after him. You've done all you can for now."

She stared at him, holding on to her stubbornness for a moment longer before she nodded and let him help her to her feet. "Just… let me lie down on the couch for a bit," she said as she waved a hand towards the stairs. "I'll be fine there."

No reason to argue that. He'd long ago lost count of the number of people who'd fallen asleep there when they couldn't or didn't want to go any farther. He wondered how long it had been since _she'd_ slept.

Ianto offered to get a blanket and pillow and quickly disappeared into some area or other of the Hub. He always seemed to have whatever was needed, stashed away in some hidey-hole or other. He'd produced far more … esoteric items at the drop of a hat, so Jack was sure some extra bedding wouldn't be the least bit of a problem.

While Ianto was gone on his errand, Jack helped Martha up the stairs, his arm around her back and her weight leaning against him. He sat her on the edge of the couch and tugged her lab coat off her limp and unresisting arms. All the tension and energy seemed to have drained out of her now that she'd agreed to rest. They sat in silence for a moment, Jack absently rubbing his hand across the back of Martha's shoulders. He hoped the touch was soothing.

As soon as Ianto returned, Jack eased Martha down onto her side, and Ianto spread the blanket carefully over her. She curled up and closed her eyes, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other hand clutching the edge of the blanket, and was asleep in a matter of moments.

Ianto wordlessly pulled up a chair for Jack, then said he'd check to see if Sara needed any assistance. Jack sank into the chair gratefully. He wasn't ready to go back into the medbay just yet. Now that the adrenalin and immediate fear were fading, he was feeling horrified and decidedly nauseous about what had just happened there. It didn't help that once upon a terrible time, he'd been drained of blood over and over again himself.

He tried to distract himself by sitting and watching Martha sleeping for a while, and that led him into memories of the first time he'd met her, at the end of the universe with the light dying from creation. Hardly soothing thoughts, but at least it was a diversion from the here and now, as well as from other, more unpleasant recollections.

Eventually, Ianto reappeared at his side with a steaming cup of coffee. Jack gave him a wan but hopefully grateful smile, then took a sip and found the coffee was perfectly brewed as always. He thanked Ianto, then realized he hadn't seen Gwen since he'd woken up. Ianto told him she'd gone home to check in with Rhys and to get some rest but had her mobile on and said she'd head right back the minute she was needed.

Jack nodded and told Ianto he should go home and take a break as well, but he replied that he wasn't tired. He said he'd gotten a few hours of sleep while Jack was passed out on his desk, and he'd be here and there about the Hub if Jack wanted anything else. And that was that. Pure Ianto, always knowing and doing what was needed without being asked and sometimes despite what he was told.

After Jack had very slowly drained the cup of coffee, he got wearily to his feet and went to check on the Doctor. Thankfully, all traces of blood had been scrubbed from the medbay floor and the biohazard container was nowhere to be seen. He was immensely relieved not to have that tangible reminder, but a slight metallic tang still hung in the air. Or maybe that was his imagination.

Inman was removing the bandages on one of the Doctor's arms and cleaning the dried blood and disinfectant from his skin. The wounds Jack could see seemed to have closed, but the skin around them was still inflamed and there was black discoloration running underneath. Jack realized he been half-hoping that the Doctor would recover quickly now and that they'd all soon be pretending it had never happened. It had been a foolish thought.

He slipped away before Inman noticed him. He didn't particularly want to stay and watch. Every bandage removed would've been a small torture to him. He knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself from counting the wounds and thinking how he should've been able to prevent them from reaching such a staggering number.

He went back to Martha and sat down, bent over with his face buried in his hands. He gave up on trying to keep his recent memories at bay. There was no point in resisting, really. He knew his mind wouldn't rest until it was allowed to comb through the details. Over and over, he saw the Doctor lying on that bed, terrified at being faced with having the life drained out of him yet again. He recalled the Doctor telling him it didn't matter if Jack touched him, but that had only been because the pain was blinding him. It would matter to him later. It would always matter. He would never be anything but Wrong in the Doctor's eyes.

Jack couldn't sit still, not with his brain running like that, so he resorted to stalking around the Hub, taking a variety of circuitous routes to keep the path from becoming automatic. He figured he could keep his thoughts from completely overwhelming him that way, and for the most part he was successful.

Eventually, he couldn't stand to stay away from the medbay any longer. He figured Inman must've had more than sufficient time to remove all the bandages, but he still looked cautiously around the edge of the doorframe just to be certain. The Doctor was still under what Jack assumed was the cooling blanket. He hadn't taken much notice of it earlier, but now it seemed somehow fascinating. It was a thick, pale blue thing with a tube running from the edge to a large unit on the floor. He could detect a faint humming and gurgling sound. The cooling must be liquid-based.

Inman was sitting in the corner at the computer terminal. She must've seen Jack out of the corner of her eye because she turned towards him and offered him a faint smile. He didn't go into the room, just asked if there had been any change. She said she didn't have much to report other than the inflammation around the wounds on the Doctor's body starting to abate. At least that was something, but not nearly enough. Foolish thoughts.

Jack went back to his pacing vigil through the uncomfortably quiet Hub. Everything seemed to him to be caught in some sort of stasis, his universe hushed and holding its breath. Martha slept on, deeply at first but tossing and turning more as time went by. He had to keep straightening the blanket over her, but each time she settled again for a while.

Inman emerged from the medbay at one point, and she and Jack had a brief conversation on the steps next to the waterfall. She told him she was satisfied the infection in the Doctor's body was well on its way to being under control. His temperature had fallen enough to remove the cooling blanket. The burns on his hand were nearly gone, but the various bruises and scratches on his face and body hadn't even begun to heal. Her guess was that his body had some way of prioritizing injuries and focusing on the most critical first, starting with closing the wounds and fighting the infection, then tending to the burn. His body might have simply reached the limits of its power to heal for the time being.

Martha tried to get up soon after that, but Jack pushed her gently back down onto the couch, filled her in on the Doctor's condition and insisted she go back to sleep. She gave a token bit of resistance, but finally conceded. He wasn't sure if she was truly that exhausted or simply didn't have the heart in her to face the situation in the medbay yet. Possibly a combination of both.

Jack went and sat at his desk for a while, fiddling with the various items that were there but studiously avoiding the silver alarm clock, apart from dutifully winding it. When he grew bored of inane distraction, he laid his head down on his desk and closed his eyes. He still felt tired and wrung out, even after his earlier long stretch of rest, but real sleep eluded him.

He was roused out of his dozing by the phone ringing. It was Gwen, saying she was headed back to the Hub. Jack glanced at his watch and dully noted that it was early morning. He updated her on what was happening and told her to take the day off unless the world got thrown any more off kilter than it already was. He didn't need one more person hanging about waiting for something to happen. He also made a mental note to send Inman home as soon as Martha was in a fit state to take charge of the Doctor's care again. He wasn't quite sure when Inman had slept last, but she at least seemed to be coping fairly well with whatever exhaustion she might be feeling, which was more than he could say for Martha, or himself for that matter.

As soon as he'd hung up the phone, Ianto appeared with some toast and tea. Jack filled him in on the most recent events as well. Ianto nodded, gave him a sympathetic look, just the right touch of commiseration without pity, and went back to wherever he'd been keeping himself.

Jack ignored the toast, but drank the tea. He got up from his desk but knew he simply couldn't bear to pace any more. He thought he might start grabbing things and throwing them if he went on like that, and he'd probably end up breaking something useful or even critical. He went instead and sat on the floor next to Martha with his back against the couch and stared across at the water tower, trying to lose himself in the gentle downward rippling of the water. That helped to calm him sometimes. Not today.

He leaned his head back, resting it against Martha's side, and found that he was able to sit quietly in that position, the rhythm of her breathing soothing him. His gaze drifted up towards the ceiling, and he tried to imagine peace was floating up there somewhere. Once he saw the pterodactyl sailing across the open expanse, blissfully ignorant of what was going on below.

Some indeterminate time later, he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to his right, and turned his head to see Inman approaching hesitantly. "I'm sorry to interrupt you," she said tentatively.

He sucked in a deep breath and stared at her for a moment. She was calm, so there must not be an emergency, but he didn't think she'd bother him if it wasn't important. He carefully got to his feet and walked over to her, taking her by the elbow and steering her back down the stairs so they wouldn't wake Martha. As they stopped just inside the hallway that led to the medbay, he said quietly, "What's going on?"

"I just wanted to tell you the Doctor has opened his eyes–"

He barely registered her saying "but" as he brushed past her. The rest of her statement was lost as he dashed down the hall and stumbled into the medbay to find the Doctor unexpectedly still lying flat on his back, now under a plain, dark blue blanket, the color a startling contrast to his pale skin. His eyes were open but he was staring at the ceiling and didn't look over or speak at the sound of Jack's arrival. Maybe he was simply exhausted and hadn't noticed. Or was he ignoring Jack, refusing to acknowledge the one who had failed him so horribly? No, that couldn't be it. When the Doctor criticized someone for their mistakes, he did it verbally. Loudly and passionately. The only thing Jack had ever known him to try and will away with silence was his own past.

"You'll never win a staring contest with the ceiling, you know," he said lightly as he

walked over to the bed. "Believe me, I've tried." He slowed and stopped, though, as he realized the Doctor wasn't reacting to his presence. Not the slightest twitch. "Doctor?" he said a bit more loudly.

"I'm sorry," Inman said as she entered the room behind him. "I wanted to warn you that he's not responding to any outside stimulus."

Jack swallowed hard and nodded his head. "I can see that." He finished walking to the side of the bed, then tilted his head and frowned as he looked carefully at the Doctor. "His eyes are dilated." He turned and shot an anxious glance at Inman. "I mean, completely dilated. There's hardly any iris left."

"I know," she said sadly, her expression soft and serious in the manner of someone delivering bad news.

"What does that mean?" he demanded, irritated at how calm she seemed to be.

"I'm not sure. If he were human–"

"He's _not_ human!" he snapped at her, cutting off what she was about to say. He didn't want to hear her guesses right now, particularly since he knew they would be dire. "Go get Martha," he ordered brusquely and turned immediately away from her. He closed his eyes and clutched a fistful of his shirt over the pain in his heart – there was actual, physical pain there – and let out a shaky breath.

When he opened his eyes again, he briefly considered touching the Doctor, thinking that would get through to him wherever he was drifting, but he couldn't bring himself to actually do it. He didn't want to think what it might mean if the touch of something so completely and utterly Wrong as himself didn't cause some kind of reaction. "C'mon, Doc, I know you're in there somewhere," he said pleadingly.

Moments later, Martha rushed in, shoving her arms back into her lab coat as she went. She looked frazzled, clothing rumpled and stray hairs floating around her face. Her bleary eyes were filled with anxiety, and her mouth was turned downwards in a grim frown. Inman must've given _her_ all the important details before letting her blunder into false hope.

Jack stepped back to make room for Martha and her determination, then shuffled around her to stand near the bottom of the bed, well out of the way. He watched apprehensively as she leaned over to look at the Doctor's eyes. At the same time, she was searching for something in her pockets and evidently not finding it. He was going to ask what she was looking for when Inman handed her a penlight. Martha absently thanked her and then turned her attention back to the Doctor.

She shone the light in each eye several times before giving up. "No response to light," she said, her voice edged with despair. She slipped the penlight into her breast pocket and put her hands over her face, her fingertips pressed against her closed eyes.

Jack went to her and laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and turned to Inman. "Let's set up an EEG," she said, her voice mostly steady but with desperation running underneath.

Inman nodded and quickly turned to the cabinets and drawers along the wall. She immediately began efficiently gathering supplies, seeming to know exactly where everything was without having to pause to think about it or even so much as glance at the neat labels on every door and drawer face. He supposed the labels must be meant for others who might be assisting her, but part of him wondered if she was simply being pragmatic and preparing for the possibility that she wouldn't be there one day. Owen had hardly labeled anything, but then he hadn't been the sort to plan for his own death.

Martha folded the blanket down far enough to expose the Doctor's shoulders, chest and upper arms. She paused for a moment, looking at him with an inscrutable expression on her face, then slowly ran her fingers down the side of his neck. There was some bruising there, but otherwise the skin was unblemished.

Jack was confused by her odd behavior for a moment, but then he recalled she hadn't actually seen the Doctor since she'd drained the poison from him. Obviously, his condition had improved, but somehow Jack didn't think it was a comfort to her given this latest turn of events. What would it matter if the body was healed if the mind was beyond repair?

Martha didn't seem to want to dwell on whatever thoughts were running through her head, though, because as soon as her fingers reached the Doctor's collarbone, she lifted her hand and reached up to turn off the vital signs monitor. Then she started removing the various bits of monitoring equipment attached to him, starting with the blood pressure cuff and body temperature sensor, then the respiration monitoring belt, then quickly moving on to unsnapping the EKG wires from the electrodes scattered over the Doctor's chest.

"What are you doing?" Jack asked gently, carefully. He'd had to suppress the urge to do the same himself several times during the past hours because it seemed so wrong for so many wires to be attached to the Doctor, all doing nothing more than marking the evidence of his life. He couldn't understand why Martha was removing it all now.

"I don't want anything interfering with the EEG," she replied tersely. "His body's fine, or nearly so. He doesn't need all of this anymore."

He wondered if she was being impetuous because there was a quiver of an intense emotion in her voice that he couldn't quite identify. Inman wasn't objecting, though, so either she was utterly yielding to Martha in this or she also didn't see the need for such comprehensive monitoring any longer. He wasn't going to complain. After they were done with the EEG, in fact, he was going to insist they put some clothing on the Doctor. The sight of him lying there under the blanket naked was very disturbing to Jack. It was a mental image he wanted to scour from his mind entirely because no matter what the context, he knew it would always inevitably bring him back to this place and time.

Martha bumped into him as she pulled the Doctor's hand out from under the blanket. "You can either help me or get out of the way, Jack," she said without looking up, busying herself with removing the EKG wire attached to the Doctor's wrist and peeling off the adhesive electrode.

Jack stepped away from the bed without a word and went to stand with his back against the wall next to the door. He didn't know quite what to say and certainly didn't want to explain to Martha his reluctance to touch the Doctor. He'd never told her about the effect he had on the Doctor since becoming immortal.

He watched silently as Martha finished disconnecting both of the EKGs, then removed the nasal cannula and the pulse-oximeter. She hesitated a moment over the IV port, but then began pulling up the tape securing it at various points.

"Are you sure–" Inman began, but Martha cut her off.

"There's nothing…" She trailed off, took a deep breath, then said with a catch in her voice. "There's nothing else I can do for him." Then without even a beat, "I need some gauze."

Inman tore open a small paper package and handed the requested gauze to Martha, and she pressed it over the insertion site on the inside of the Doctor's elbow before pulling the IV out. She held the gauze in place a moment before Inman handed her a piece of tape to hold it in place.

All along, Inman had been quietly clearing away the equipment and associated debris. A few last bits tossed in the trash or biohazard bin affixed to the wall and the Doctor was left looking somewhat more normal, at least physically. Now they had a much more daunting obstacle looming ahead of them. A Time Lord's brain was so much more complicated and unfathomable than his body.

He watched patiently at first as Martha and Inman placed electrode after electrode on the Doctor's head, all the way down to his eyebrows. It was a painstaking process, first scrubbing each small area, then applying some kind of gel, and finally applying the electrode itself. Jack wondered if there was some kind of alien technology in storage that would've been quicker to use, but he supposed if they did have something like that in their possession, Inman would've found it. She must know her way around the Torchwood servers and databases fairly well to have found the artificial plasma. Owen had been maddeningly random about where he saved his files.

Martha did one final check of the electrodes while Inman went and retrieved the EEG monitor from the adjacent room. She returned with a rolling cart that held a computer with a small box next to it. As she plugged the computer in and booted it up, Martha took the bundle of thin wires attached to the array of electrodes and plugged their common connector into the box. Finally everything was ready. Martha reached out a hesitant hand and pressed a button on the box.

A cascade of frenzied lines shot across the computer monitor, spiking so sharply and with the points so close together that Jack was reminded of a seismometer recording a violent earthquake. After a handful of seconds, the computer display flickered and went out and the box sparked and belched out black smoke. Martha grabbed the wires attached to the box and yanked them out, at the same time as she hooked her foot under the computer's power cord and pulled it out of the wall. Then she stood there waving the smoke away with her free hand.

Silence for a moment. The faint smell of burned circuitry. Rapid breathing all around, other than from the Doctor, who remained oblivious. Then Inman's voice asking, "What the hell was that?"

"He overloaded the equipment," Martha muttered, still holding the wires and staring in unsettled awe at the Doctor.

"I guess that means he's still in there," Jack said with a nervous laugh.

"Yeah," she said faintly as she laid the bundle of wires across the cart holding the EEG equipment. "I guess so." But she didn't sound convinced.

"What's wrong?" he asked nervously.

"Nothing." She shook her head, then threw her hands up in the air. "Everything! I don't know what the hell I'm doing here, Jack!" She was verging on yelling now, looking at him desperately, her eyes glazed with tears. "For all I know, his brain is overloaded and shorting out somehow!"

He closed the distance between them quickly and pulled her against himself, his arms wrapping securely around her. "That's not true," he said sharply, then reined the force of his denial back into calm reassurance. "You know it's not." He gripped her a bit harder and added, "His brain's just too much for the equipment to handle. Great big Time Lord brain, the EEG didn't stand a chance. That's what he'd say if he was awake."

"I wish he'd wake up and tell us himself," she said, and sighed.

"I know. I do too." He rested his chin on the top of her head and looked over at the still and staring body on the bed. A Doctor who was not moving, not speaking. That was its own kind of Wrong.


	11. Gnomon

Chapter 11 – "Gnomon"

Jack knew Martha needed a break, more than just a nap on a couch down the hall and around the corner from the medbay, so while she and Inman were removing the EEG electrodes from the Doctor's head, he gave Gwen a call from his office and asked if it would be all right for Martha to pop over for a shower and a bite to eat. Gwen agreed without hesitation and offered to drive over to fetch Martha, but Ianto poked his head into Jack's office door at the moment, so he was designated as chauffeur.

When Jack returned to the medbay to tell Martha about the arrangements, she was in the process of giving the Doctor's hair a wash, his head lying in a basin filled with towels to absorb the water she was pouring over his hair from a plastic pitcher. She half-heartedly joked that it was really too much hair gel, even for the Doctor, then absently added that she'd closed his eyes to keep the water and soap out of them. Also, he didn't seem to be blinking very much and his eyes were becoming irritated. Jack was thankful for Martha's action because he didn't think he could stand looking at the Doctor's blank stare for much longer.

He expected her to fight him on leaving the Doctor's side for a while, but she gave in without much fuss, only saying that she wanted to take care of getting him into some clothing before she left so he'd be more comfortable. Jack doubted the Doctor was feeling much of anything at the moment, but since Martha had determined to do what Jack had wanted to do himself, he didn't comment. He looked around the medbay in search of the bag and shoes that had been with the Doctor when Martha had brought him here but didn't see them anywhere.

Martha must've been reading his mind because she said in a tired voice that she'd gone through the clothing and found the Doctor's sonic screwdriver and eyeglasses, but she'd thrown the clothing away. It had apparently been cut off him at the hospital where he'd first been taken and was stained with blood besides. The Chucks had likewise been spattered with dark stains, so she'd tossed those into the bin as well. Jack was actually glad of their absence. He didn't want to see any additional reminders of what the Plasmavores had done. Looking at the Doctor himself was horrible enough.

Ianto had found the Doctor's coat in the cottage outside Crickhowell, but that left them without any practical clothing to put on the Doctor now. Jack turned down Ianto's offer to find something servicable, saying he'd rather handle it himself. He briefly considered looking in the TARDIS. Going through the Doctor's personal effects seemed too much like an invasion of privacy, though. He ended up rummaging through his own spare clothing and found a pair of black track bottoms and a short-sleeved white t-shirt that he figured would suffice for the time being.

He left Inman, Martha and Ianto to manage that bit of business because it wasn't something he wanted to witness. Besides, he had no intention of helping since that would mean he would have to touch the Doctor. Despite the results of the EEG, he was still concerned that nothing would happen if he did so. Martha's brief breakdown and her conjectures about the Doctor's brain shorting out hadn't helped to reassure him.

After the Doctor was dressed and settled under a fresh blanket with his arms on top this time, looking strangely small and lost without all the monitoring equipment, Jack hustled Martha out the door with Ianto. He muttered some last-minute instructions to Ianto to try and get Martha to take as long a break as possible. Ianto sighed and said he'd try. Jack knew Martha wouldn't want to stay for long and would try to browbeat Ianto into bringing her back as soon as possible. He doubted she'd be able to intimidate Ianto to that degree, but he'd have to give in eventually to keep her from heading out in search of an alternative means of transportation. Jack didn't doubt that she'd walk all the way back here if she had to.

After they were gone, he sent Inman home. She tried to protest, but he wasn't taking any arguments this time. He really didn't want her hanging about as if there were something she could do. The rational part of him told him he was being foolish stranding himself with no backup if any further medical crisis occurred, but instinct told him it was a waiting game now, and it only took one person to do that. So he settled himself down to another vigil, a stationary one this time. The chair in the medbay wasn't the most comfortable in the world, but he was tired of standing, and sitting on the bed next to the Doctor was absolutely not an option.

His eyes wandered around the room at first, not wanting to rest on the Doctor, and fell on the Doctor's coat where it was laying on the counter. He stood and went over to it, picked it up and shook it out to its full length. He wondered what Martha had done with the sonic screwdriver and the Doctor's eyeglasses, so he checked the interior breast pocket, which seemed to be the most obvious place, and found them there. He started to fold the coat up again, but stopped and hesitated a moment, then went over to the bed and spread it over the Doctor. Maybe something safe and familiar would help to bring him back. Then he returned to the chair and sat leaning slightly forwards, his elbows on his knees and chin resting on his fists. His mind went blessedly blank, and he let it drift, his eyes fixed on the Doctor's right hand as it lay lax and lifeless on the bed.

He'd lost all track of time and place and sense of self when he realized the hand had moved, was now clenching into a fist, then stretching out with fingers spread wide. His eyes shot up to the Doctor's face, and he found eyes staring back at him. They were still fully dilated. Strange, inhuman eyes with only blackness at their center. Words deserted him under that unfathomable scrutiny. The Doctor turned his head away, but Jack still remained silent, watching, unsure what to say or if he should say anything at all.

The Doctor sat up slowly, surprisingly not needing any assistance although his movements were careful and deliberate, bordering on clumsy, as if he wasn't quite sure how to move his body or didn't know if it even would move as it was supposed to do. The coat and blanket fell from his upper body and he absently pushed them off his legs as well. He started to turn to the side of the bed, then looked down at the railing blocking his way and frowned.

Jack got up and lowered the railing without hesitation. Part of him was saying it might be unwise to let the Doctor get down, but another part of him warned that it wouldn't be a good idea to stop him, so he backed up as the Doctor tentatively swung his legs over the side of the bed. He seemed completely and utterly alien in that moment, as if nothing human had ever touched him. His face was expressionless, his eyes reflecting something that wasn't even recognizable to Jack as thought or emotion.

He was so quiet, silent as he slid down to stand on the floor. It almost seemed for a moment as if his legs wouldn't hold him, but then he stood up straight as if gravity had no effect on him at all. He walked slowly over to Jack, his coordination seeming to have returned, his steps light and bare feet soundless on the floor. Like a ghost. He stopped little more than a foot away from Jack and tilted his head to the side, staring intently as if he was trying to figure something out and couldn't quite grasp it. As if he wasn't quite sure what to make of Jack.

"I'm Wrong," Jack found himself saying. He hadn't meant to speak at all, certainly hadn't meant to say anything like that, but there it was. He couldn't unsay it any more than he could undo it.

The Doctor pulled back a bit, his face wrinkled in confusion, not seeming to understand what Jack's words meant. Then his head jerked towards the door and he turned and walked determinedly out of the medbay, his steps still silent and disconcertingly gliding. Jack followed warily.

The Doctor started up the stairs that led to the work stations, but then his head turned sharply to the right, and he returned to the main floor. He walked slowly across the grating over the waterfall's reservoir, then paused and looked around before turning right again, past the armory to the hidden lift.

Jack kept his distance and watched as the Doctor stared at the concrete platform, emotions slowly emerging, confusion alternating with recognition on his face. He crouched down and ran his hand over the surface, then stood and hopped lightly onto it. Jack had to shake his head and squint to overcome the effect of the perception filter, but it wasn't as difficult as it had been in the past. He supposed he was becoming accustomed to it.

After turning around in a complete circle with his eyes turned downwards, the Doctor raised his head again, a fleeting rush of what Jack could've sworn was amusement slipping across his face before it was gone and his face returned to its previous unsettlingly inhuman lack of expression. He stepped off the platform and started up the steps that wound around the water tower. Halfway up, he stopped and slowly lifted his arms, then pressed his hands flat against the tower's surface. Water ran down his arms and streamed from his elbows, spattering his feet. His eyes travelled gradually all the way up to the top of the Hub, to where the tower disappeared above the surface, then his head jerked down and towards Jack's office. He lowered his arms and continued up the stairs, water still dripping from his fingertips as he passed between the work stations and turned right.

Jack went after him slowly, running his own fingers across the surface of the tower, but he couldn't sense anything there other than concrete and water. He could easily understand why the Doctor had been interested in the hidden lift since the TARDIS had imparted its perception filter to the slab of concrete that formed it, but he had no idea what had captured his attention in the water. He left that mystery among the vast collection related to the Doctor and continued up to his office, where he found the Doctor holding the silver alarm clock, the gap still in its casing. That at least made some sense since Jack figured the clock actually belonged to the Doctor. One of his fingers was following the second hand around and around the face of the clock, a look of intense concentration twisting his features.

Then he clutched the clock with both hands, his expression turning all too humanly bereft, and he abruptly brushed past Jack, not seeming to notice him at all. As he headed back out of the office, his arm caught on the doorframe, causing him to stumble. He caught himself with a hand against the narrow strip of wall between the office and the autopsy room, where he stood unmoving for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath coming in short gusts. Then he turned and pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up and the clock held possessively to his chest.

"Doctor?" Jack asked tentatively. The Doctor's eyes slowly opened, and Jack was relieved to see his pupils had finally contracted, but there was no further response. He said a bit louder and more firmly, "Doctor, can you hear me?"

"There's nothing wrong with my ears," the Doctor said distantly, then turned his eyes down to the clock and began to turn it over and over in his hands, fingers exploring the winding key, the small round feet, the bell at the top, tracing the gap where the missing piece belonged. "Go ahead and sit down." He briefly tilted his head to the space beside him. "I don't like people hovering over me."

Jack was dumbfounded. About the last thing he was expecting right now was an invitation to sit down next to the Doctor. He didn't question it, though, turning his back to the outer wall of his office and sliding down to sit cross-legged on the floor, his knees nearly touching the side of the Doctor's leg. His eyes never strayed from the Doctor's face, looking for any sign of discomfort, ready to bolt at the first indication he was causing the Doctor any more pain, but there was nothing. Not even the vaguest hint that he was making the Doctor uneasy in any way. He would've preferred for the Doctor to be absolutely terrified by his presence. He wasn't sure what this lack of response meant.

The Doctor didn't seem to be interested in saying anything else at the moment. He simply continued to worry the clock, turning it over and around, and then holding it tightly between his hands and rubbing both thumbs across its face. Jack found his behavior unnerving, to say the least.

"Are you all right?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. What an utterly stupid question to ask. Martha had had the sense to stop herself asking him that question. Why in the hell was he asking the Doctor now?

The Doctor gave a short, dry laugh. "No, I'm not," he said as he tilted his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. "I'm as wrong as you are. Maybe more so."

Jack frowned, puzzled. "I don't understand."

"I've lost my sense of time," he said dully, then opened his eyes and glanced over at Jack. His eyes were sad and gently glimmering, but there was a faint, incongruous smile curving his lips. "The only way I know you're sitting right next to me is by looking at you. Great, big, glaring Wrongness that you are, and I can't sense it in the slightest."

Confusion was Jack's first reaction, followed by shock and dread. He didn't know how to react, what to say, and stumbled through a handful of words. "What? I mean, how…?"

The Doctor shook his head slightly. "It doesn't matter," he said distractedly as he looked down at the clock in his hands. His voice turned bitter as he added, "Suffice it to say that this thing knows time better than I do right now." He was silent a moment, then his face abruptly scrunched up in anguish. He pressed the clock to his chest with one hand and laid the other on top of his head as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and pressed his forehead against his knees.

He made such a perfect picture of misery that Jack automatically started to reach out a hand to try and offer comfort in some small way, but he stopped and pulled his hand back again, a visceral part of him not wanting the physical confirmation of the Doctor's revelation. Also, he wasn't sure how such a gesture would be received given the Doctor's current state of mind.

Then without warning, the Doctor's head snapped up and he threw the clock as hard as he could out into the Hub. It hit something, and there was the sound of multiple pieces clattering to the ground. The anger on his face quickly faded, though. He shivered, crossed his arms over his chest, each hand on the opposite shoulder and pulled his knees up to press against his arms. "A Time Lord without Time," he muttered. "What does that make me?"

Before Jack could even begin to formulate any kind of answer – vague platitudes were all that were coming to mind, and he was not about to resort to inane reassurances – the Doctor shrugged one shoulder, then said dryly, "Well, take 'Time' out of 'Time Lord' and you're left with 'Lord,' obviously, but I don't think I'll keep that bit either because then people call you 'sir,' and that leads to bowing or saluting, and I hate…" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I hate _this_. All of this. I can't… I don't know what to do," he ended in a whisper.

Jack's stomach did a flip-flop and his heart skipped a beat. This was so, so wrong, in so many ways. Heartbreaking. It seemed unbearable to him. He couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel to the Doctor. He wondered again how this could've possibly happened, but instead of badgering the Doctor for the details of something he clearly wasn't in a frame of mind to discuss, he went the direct, practical route. "Is there any way this can be fixed, changed back?"

"I tried. Before I got up. Went looking. Wandering. I didn't find anything. There was nothing there."

So that was why he'd been unresponsive, lying in the medbay with his pupils dilated. Now he sounded defeated. Jack didn't like it one bit. A Time Lord without Time he could possibly accept, but the Doctor without his fire and spark and unwillingness to give in? Not acceptable. "Can the TARDIS help?" he asked, knowing he was grasping at straws but still feeling the need to make sure every possibility had been considered.

"I doubt I could even communicate with her in any meaningful way, now that this…" The Doctor waved a hand next to his head. "There are parts of my brain that just feel … empty." His face scrunched and he rubbed at the side of his forehead. "Hurts a bit, actually, when I try to think about it too deeply."

Jack found it a struggle to accept the situation, as well as to fend off the growing sense of pity that was stirring in him. He racked his brain for some other possible solution, or at least some way to spur the Doctor into action. Watching him sitting here helpless was nearly unbearable.

Before he could think of any reasonable options, though, the Doctor glanced at him with an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry about the clock," he mumbled.

It was definitely a changing of the subject. Jack wanted to dismiss it in favor of more important things, but he didn't know what else to say on the previous topics and suspected the Doctor didn't either. Also, he was curious about the origins of the clock and what the markings on it meant. "Don't apologize to me," he said. "It's your clock."

The Doctor frowned and shook his head slightly in confusion. "Pardon me?"

"It's your clock," he repeated, "or at least that's my best guess. It was given to me by a woman with ginger hair. She said I should keep it for its owner." He reached into his trouser pocket, retrieved the piece of casing and handed it to the Doctor. "Here's the missing piece."

The Doctor turned the curved metal over, his eyebrows drawing together as he read what was written there. "I don't recognize this name," he said, pointing to the top of the inscription.

"That's me. My birth name."

The Doctor's head jerked towards Jack. "I… I didn't know that," he said as he gave Jack an odd look, making him wonder if the Doctor had run across the name before now and hadn't connected it to the man he knew as Jack Harkness. He wanted to ask but felt this wasn't the time to do so. He doubted the Doctor would give him a straight answer anyway.

There was an awkward moment of silence, or at least it seemed so to Jack, before the Doctor asked, "What did the woman look like?"

"Big head of curly red hair, green eyes, long face and a strong jaw. Maybe half a foot shorter than me, in her forties, I'd guess, assuming she was human." The Doctor's expression had grown more and more surprised as he spoke. "Do you know her?"

"Going on your description, I think so. I've met her once," he replied slowly. "I'm going to meet her again, though. Often. Looks like one of those times, I need to give her an alarm clock to take to you."

"Oh." Again, Jack wanted to ask for clarification, but he felt he shouldn't pry into the matter. He gestured towards the piece of clock casing instead. "So what's the symbol at the bottom mean? I don't suppose that's _your_ real name?"

"Nooo," the Doctor said as he returned his attention to the inscription. "I wouldn't write that down anywhere, not even in Gallifreyan." He squinted and moved the piece of metal closer to his face, then further away, then closer again.

It took a moment for Jack to twig to why the Doctor was considering the symbol in such an odd manner. "I can go and get your glasses for you," he offered, starting to get up.

"No, it's all right," the Doctor replied with a firm shake of his head. "I can make it out."

Jack settled back down to wait, puzzled by the Doctor's reaction. He seemed determined to decipher the symbol without assistance, even from such a mundane thing as a pair of glasses. Or maybe he didn't want to be left alone, even for the small amount of time it would've taken for Jack to fetch the glasses? Both thoughts were uncomfortable, so Jack let them be and instead watched as the Doctor finally found an angle and distance that allowed him to read the writing, but not without squinting a bit. It apparently didn't take him long to decipher it once he could see it clearly, though, because he quickly looked up at Jack with a puzzled frown on his face.

"What does it say?" Jack asked, curiosity piqued to a level it hadn't been when he'd been distracted by the Doctor's abduction and his condition afterwards.

"It says, 'Look into his eyes and find the answers,'" the Doctor replied simply, tilting his head to the side a bit and peering at Jack even more closely.

The intense scrutiny was making Jack a bit uncomfortable and seemed to be the answer to his question, but he asked anyway. "Look into whose eyes?"

"Yours, I think. Well, it has to be. There's no one else mentioned." The Doctor leaned over to tuck the piece of the clock into Jack's shirt pocket without watching what his hands were doing. His eyes were fixed on Jack's with a seriousness and intensity that unsettled him. He wanted to look away, but didn't.

Then the Doctor took Jack's arm in a loose grasp. Jack twitched involuntarily at the contact, startled by it. He looked down at the Doctor's hand. The Doctor was actually touching him, voluntarily, gently, without any sort of hesitation, his hand steady and relaxed. It was the confirmation of the Doctor's loss that Jack hadn't wanted earlier, but it was also something part of him had longed for ever since he'd learned about the effects his Wrongness had on the Doctor.

"Jack, look at me," the Doctor said, his voice soft but demanding. Jack raised his eyes and saw loss and longing looking back at him. The loss was no surprise – the Doctor had lost so much that it was always there if you knew where to look, and now he'd had even more taken from him – but the longing more than took him aback because he wasn't sure what it meant.

The Doctor shifted into a cross-legged position, his knees pressed against Jack's. He leaned forward slightly, his hand still on Jack's arm, the grip tighter now. The proximity and contact didn't seem to be bothering the Doctor in the slightest. Jack, though, was finding the Doctor's touch vaguely uncomfortable, and the steadiness of his gaze was unsettling and made Jack want to look away. It was all backwards and so, so confusing. They had become an oddly matched set of Wrong.

"May I?" the Doctor asked quietly, his hand loosening its hold on Jack.

Jack frowned, not quite sure what the Doctor was wanting to do. Surely he wouldn't feel the need to ask permission for something as simple as looking, but then he'd already done that and apparently hadn't found what he needed. He wanted to go deeper.

The Doctor seemed to sense his hesitation and said, "You can tell me to stop at any point."

Jack blinked several times and then nodded. He wasn't sure why he hadn't immediately given his consent. He trusted the Doctor, absolutely.

A trace of a grateful smile crossed the Doctor's face, but it faded quickly as his other hand came to rest on Jack's knee. He leaned forwards slightly, then looked so deeply into Jack's eyes that it felt as if something might be broken forever if he tried to look away.

"Oh, it's there," the Doctor said after a moment. His voice sounded awed and reverent.

"What is it?" Jack asked roughly, his mouth gone suddenly dry.

There was a long pause. Jack was beginning to think the Doctor wasn't going to answer him when he finally whispered, "I can see Time all around you. You're in the center, unmoving. You're not Wrong, Jack. You just _are_."

 _You're not Wrong._ Jack hadn't dared to hope he'd ever hear that statement coming from the Doctor, not with any kind of certainty or real belief, but there was no doubting his sincerity. Chills went through Jack's body for one brief moment. Then out of his peripheral vision, he saw the Doctor's right hand lifting towards his face.

The Doctor's eyes were full of such intense desperation now that Jack nearly shrank before it. His hand reached Jack's face, and cool and trembling fingers slid along his cheek, his jawline, his temple. He whispered in a reverent voice, "Time is moving all around you. I can almost touch it." Then he suddenly pulled back with a deep and shaky breath and wrapped his arms across his chest as a shiver went through him.

"What? What is it?" Jack asked urgently. "Why did you stop?"

"Because I'm not sure this will work," the Doctor replied simply.

Jack thought he could sense an unvoiced fear there, but decided not to address it. That would be entirely too uncomfortable for both of them. Instead, he yet again opted for something more direct. "Not sure what will work?"

The Doctor hesitated, seemed unwilling to explain, or perhaps he didn't know where to begin. Jack needed to understand this time, though, because he couldn't avoid the feeling that whatever it was the Doctor needed from him would alter them both irrevocably. He pressed for an answer. "Doctor, please tell me what's going on."

The Doctor nodded as he relaxed his arms, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands against his crossed legs. "The way I lost my connection to Time is something I can't recreate in my current state. It has to do with the moment just prior to regeneration, and that's something I'm not capable of just now."

An icy chill went through Jack at the confirmation of the suppositions he and Martha had made about the Doctor's state of health. They really had been treading on a razor's edge.

The Doctor went on before Jack had a chance to make any comment, not that he knew what he could've possibly said. "You, though, Jack – you're another matter. You're here and now, even though you're impossible. Actually, it's precisely because you're impossible that I think I can restore my connection to time through you. I might be able to sense time around other fixed points as I apparently can with you, but I can't mentally connect to a place or an event. You're the only living fixed point that I know of, perhaps the only one that's ever existed. And I think if I can reach into your mind and somehow touch the Time eddies surrounding you, Time will flow back into me."

"Then do it," Jack said abruptly. He couldn't understand why the Doctor was hesitating.

The Doctor shook his head. "There'll be an effect on you, Jack. Time near a fixed point is a strange thing. There could be a breach in the wall that surrounds and protects you. Time and life could drain away from you. In fact, I'm fairly certain it will."

A surge of burning emotions crashed into Jack – shock, fear, hope. He'd gone through a dark period at one point in the past where he'd repeatedly killed himself, hoping desperately to stay dead. He'd long since accepted that it would never happen. But now, the possibility was back in front of him once again, and it made him want to weep for joy and sorrow all at once. The thought crossed his mind that he was so incredibly twisted, so truly Wrong, for wanting nothing more in all of existence than the very thing that every other creature in the universe feared above almost all else.

Now Jack understood what the Doctor wanted – no, _needed_ – but he couldn't help but hold onto the lingering fear. The universe without the Doctor, though, a proper Doctor who was whole and himself, was too terrible to contemplate. He shoved the fear aside. "I don't care," he said. "Take as much as you need. Take it all if you have to." He was suddenly certain that he'd let the Doctor do just that, a thousand times over, no matter the cost to himself.

A sad smile lifted the corners of the Doctor's mouth, and he shook his head slightly. "Not even I could hold that much life. No one is meant to hold infinity in their hands."

"I never wanted it," Jack replied, a bit of anger stirring in him.

"I know. And I'm sorry. But you _are_ going to die one day, Jack. Not for a long time, such a very long time, but you will. I didn't know how, but now I think I understand. It begins today."

There was a certainty there that Jack didn't understand, but he didn't have a chance to question it. The Doctor was already raising his hands and placing them gently on either side of Jack's face, and nothing mattered but that touch. "Close your eyes," the Doctor said as he spread his fingers wide and pressed down slightly. "Try to relax. I'll be as careful as I possibly can, but I can't promise it won't hurt."

Jack smiled slightly, tears beginning to well in his eyes, but not because he was afraid. That was melting away to be replaced by a feeling he couldn't explain. It was transcendent and vast, beyond and within himself.

He pressed his hands briefly over the Doctor's, then slid his fingers down the Doctor's arms to loosely grip his forearms. The Doctor didn't twitch in the slightest. If anything, a bit of the tension melted from his grip. Jack let out a sob for that alone. Then he watched, transfixed, as the Doctor leaned forward and ever so gently kissed him on the lips. It was the most profoundly chaste kiss Jack had ever experienced in his life, equal parts gratitude and blessing, overlaid with an elusive something much greater than either.

Jack closed his eyes and opened his mind, floating in a haze of tranquility for the briefest of moments. The Doctor's mind touched his, fleetingly at first, then with more surety and insistence. It was exhilarating at the same time as it was unsettling. It made his heart beat faster and set off a sense of vertigo. He could feel something stirring all around him, swirling incessantly, churning and crashing against a barrier that stood between him and the ravages of Time. He'd never known it was there before, and took a moment to touch its strangeness, but then the Doctor's mind stabbed into his, ripping down and over and through in a screaming streak of agony. His own anguish and the Doctor's mingled until he could no longer tell what belonged to either of them. He reveled in it, embraced it, let it burn through him.

He felt something deep inside of him crack, razor-sharp shards breaking off and falling away. It was pure joy to let it go, and he gave himself up to the feeling, let himself be transfused and transformed by it. And for a moment, he found he could believe in God again.


	12. Out of the Shadows

Chapter 12 – "Out of the Shadows"

Martha should've known Jack was right about her needing a break, especially when she considered he had more years of life experience than even a great-great-grandfather would have. After Ianto drove her to Gwen's, she had an indecently long shower and changed into a spare set of clothing Gwen had laid out for her. She even managed to eat a bit of the full English breakfast Rhys had cooked while she was showering.

She also took the opportunity to make a call to her UNIT superior officer, informing him that the lead she'd been following had been a dead end. She told him she'd file a report when she was back in the office and requested several days of leave to attend to some personal business. She could tell from his tone of voice that he was somewhat suspicious of her asking for leave since she almost never did so, plus she hadn't provided any details as yet as to what lead she was following. She knew she was pushing the bounds of what he would accept from her, but he granted the leave and said he wanted a personal meeting with her when she returned. She was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

After that, Ianto persuaded her to take a walk out in the fresh air, although she insisted on going by herself. She ambled down the quiet street without noticing much of what was going on around her until she found a small park with a pond. There was a path where she could wander around the water, letting the sun and the breeze slough off a bit of the tension and stress that had defined her for so many weeks.

By the time she and Ianto headed back to the Hub, she was feeling much more positive about the Doctor's condition. Physically, he was well on the way to recovery. As for his mind, what she'd said about his brain shorting out was simply a wild supposition with little basis in fact. The dilated eyes were probably some sort of Time Lord thing that he'd refuse to explain whenever he woke up properly. He'd hop up off the bed, stretch and give himself a good shake, wonder why everyone was staring at him, then brush all the concern and worry aside by complaining about his hair being all soft and flattened to his head or bemoaning the horrid shapeless clothing they'd put on him.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't be quite that simple this time. The vacant, dark stare of his eyes came back vividly to her, and concern crept back in as to what might have caused it. That thought caused her some trepidation as they arrived in the parking garage. Ianto had some equipment to gather up that had been left in the SUV after the trip to Crickhowell, but he told her he'd manage it himself and that she should go on ahead.

She quickly made her way down into the Hub and over to the medbay, so entirely focused on her destination that she registered little else. As she entered the doorway of the medbay, though, she froze, staring in momentary confusion at the empty bed with the Doctor's coat lying on it. The bed rail was down and both coat and blanket were shoved aside, as if the Doctor had gotten up and wandered off. She wondered where the hell Jack was, and Sara for that matter.

Annoyed that either someone had been remiss in watching over the Doctor or hadn't bothered to call her when he woke up, she backtracked into the main area of the Hub and headed up the stairs towards Jack's office. She stopped halfway up, her mind scrabbling to make sense of what she was seeing.

The Doctor was sitting cross-legged on the floor outside the office, his back against the wall, with Jack resting comfortably next to him, on his side with knees bent and his head on the Doctor's thigh. The Doctor had his head tilted back with his eyes closed and was murmuring something as he gently ran his hand through Jack's hair over and over again.

Slowly and quietly, she finished going up the stairs and walked a few steps towards the Doctor and Jack, but she stopped several feet short of them, not wanting to disturb whatever was going on. She still couldn't make out what the Doctor was saying, or was he actually singing? There was a melodic rise and fall to the tone of his voice. It was an odd tune, though, and as she strained to hear better, she decided the words weren't English. The only explanation she could think of was that both were Gallifreyan.

She stood still, held rapt by the haunting ripple of sound, but then the spell was broken as the Doctor fell silent, whether because the song had ended or because he had sensed her presence, she didn't know. He opened his eyes and looked at her with a weary expression on his face, not seeming surprised to see her, and quietly said, "Hello."

"Hello," she replied automatically, her voice catching a bit with worry for both him and Jack. Although there didn't seem to be anything overtly wrong, the way they were situated was more than a little strange. The Doctor didn't say anything further, though, returning his attention to Jack, the hand that had been combing through his hair now resting lightly on Jack's shoulder instead.

She crossed the small remaining distance and knelt beside them, then laid the back of her hand on the side of Jack's face. He seemed to be sleeping, and peacefully at that, his faced unlined and his breathing slow and even. She glanced up at the Doctor, who was still looking down towards Jack with a faint, sad smile on his face.

"What happened?" she asked hesitantly. The Doctor seemed worn out to her, beyond the fatigue of someone recovering from physical injury.

"He saved me. And in a way … I suppose I saved him."

She didn't have a chance to ask for an explanation before Ianto arrived, his feet clanging loudly on the grating as he ran over to them. He dropped down next to Martha and tilted his head sideways, his eyes searching Jack's face, then running down his body. "What did you do to him?" he said, his voice filled with unexpected heat as he looked intently at the Doctor.

"It wasn't anything he wasn't willing to do," the Doctor replied tersely. There was a suddenly grim set to his face, perhaps even a trace of guilt, but then he closed his eyes and shook his head. He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and looked mildly at Ianto as he said soothingly, "He'll be fine. He just needs a good, long rest."

Ianto remained tense and frowning, though, seemingly unwilling to accept reassurance, so Martha put her hand on his arm and said gently but with a hint of sternness, "Go get the gurney. We'll take Jack to the medbay and I'll check him over. I'm sure he's okay."

"No. I'll take him right now," Ianto said stubbornly. Before Martha could object or stop him, he'd grabbed one of Jack's arms, ducked his head under and heaved Jack onto his shoulders in a fireman's lift.

The Doctor winced and gasped at the jostling caused by Ianto's actions, and Martha's attention went from Ianto back to the Doctor. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his breathing was sharp and short, through his nose, with his lips pressed together.

"Doctor!" she said in fear and concern, wondering what injuries might still be afflicting him. She grabbed his shoulder, but he shrugged her off and opened his eyes again.

"Go and help him before he falls down the stairs," he said, obviously struggling to keep his voice even.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Ianto was nearly at the top of the stairs. He staggered a bit under the weight of Jack's body, but quickly steadied himself. As distracted as he probably was, though, it was entirely possible he'd tumble down the stairs and take Jack with him. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, fixing the Doctor with a serious look. "Stay right there. Don't even think about moving."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a partial quirk of a pained smile. "Now go."

She got to her feet and ran to catch up with Ianto. "Wait," she said as she reached him. "Let me help you."

Ianto nodded, strain showing in his face. He was probably regretting his impetuous decision to carry Jack, but they were in it now. Martha figured it was better to steady him down the stairs then to attempt to get Jack back down to the floor, so she pressed herself against Ianto's side as firmly as she could. She slid her arm carefully between Ianto's back and Jack's body and wrapped her fingers around the far side of Ianto's waist. Then they haltingly went down the stairs together.

They somehow managed to get to the medbay with falling flat on their faces. Ianto tried to lower Jack slowly onto the bed, but his strength gave out, and there was a mad scramble of supporting hands, a limp body, and shoving and pushing before Jack's considerable stature was maneuvered completely onto the bed.

Martha heaved a deep breath, then examined Jack as quickly as she could, checking his vitals and pupillary response, then looking his body over for any evident injuries. While she was occupied with that, Ianto removed the crumpled blanket and coat from where they were wedged between Jack and the bed railing and deposited them absently on the counter behind him. Finally, she told Ianto, "He's not under any kind of distress that I can see. He's just … sleeping, very deeply. Possibly unconscious, but still, not in any immediate danger. Keep an eye on him and let me know right away if he starts to wake up or if you notice any other changes. I need to go check on the Doctor."

"Of course," Ianto said half-heartedly as he reached over and took Jack's hand in his own. Martha hesitated, not wanting to leave so abruptly, but she really did need to get back to the Doctor. She settled for retrieving the blanket from the counter and spreading it over Jack and tucking it around him with Ianto's help. She folded the coat over her arm, intending to return it to its owner. It was all she had of the Doctor's belongings to offer him, and she felt as though it needed to be done sooner rather than later.

Satisfied that she'd done what she could for the moment, she started to leave but was stopped by Ianto saying quietly, "Tell the Doctor I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted like that."

"It's all right, Ianto," she replied. "I understand. I'm sure the Doctor does, too."

As she left the medbay, she glanced back to see Ianto smoothing Jack's hair back with such a gentle touch and such a tender look on his face that she couldn't help but smile. Besotted, that's what Ianto was. She only hoped Jack would find it in himself to treat that kind of devotion with the reverence and respect it deserved. It wasn't about ownership as Jack had said on that night they spent together, but maybe she was still young enough to have that optimism, whereas Jack might well have been jaded by so many years of life, many of which she was certain had been difficult, even next to impossible to bear.

When she got back to the workstation area, she laid the coat quietly on the end of the couch. The Doctor still sitting outside the door of Jack's office, his head tilted back against the wall once more and his eyes closed. His hands were resting palms upwards on his knees with fingers loosely curled. It looked like he was meditating, but he opened his eyes as soon as she was within a few paces of him.

"You didn't move," she said with a touch of light-hearted sarcasm. "I think that's the second time since I've met you that you've listened to me."

"Sorry, but I didn't quite have a choice this time," he replied ruefully, and it took her a moment to realize he meant he wasn't able to get up on his own. That caused her some momentary panic and confusion. The last few weeks and in particular the day just past had left her with a fervent wish that he would've been as truly inviolable as he sometimes seemed, but part of her also wanted that vulnerability, that humanity, even if it meant he was subject to the fragility of all life. None of that mattered at the moment, though. The plain and simple fact was that he _had_ been hurt and obviously was still weakened and in pain.

She helped him get slowly and gingerly to his feet and supported his stumbling footsteps to the couch, where she lowered him down carefully to sit. He shifted his position slightly here and there, wincing all the while, although he tried to hide it, until he seemed to be somewhat comfortable. He scrunched down a bit so his head rested against the back of the couch, then he sighed and closed his eyes, his breathing cautious but quiet.

She warily settled herself next to him, not wanting to jostle him and possibly cause further discomfort, but he remained still. She leaned forward and folded her hands, resting her elbows on her thighs, but angled herself towards him so she could keep an eye on him without feeling like she was staring. Then she waited for him to say something. She didn't want to press him, thinking he would probably withdraw into himself and insist that he was fine.

After a few minutes of silence, he raised a wavering hand and started to run it through his hair. The motion stopped halfway across the side of his head and he opened his eyes with a puzzled look on his face. His fingers shifted a bit, then he grimaced and said, "What is _that_?" He pulled his hand back down and scrutinized his fingertips. "Is that…?" He sniffed and then actually tasted whatever it was he'd found. She grimaced, but that was the Doctor, perpetually curious and orally fixated.

He frowned in thought for a moment, then said with a bit of lingering confusion, "That's conductive gel."

"Oh! Right. We ran an EEG." She felt vaguely guilty at the admission. He probably wouldn't have consented to such a thing if he'd been awake. "Sorry about the gel. I thought I got it all out. You have very thick hair."

He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. She felt another spike of worry as she wondered if he was reacting to some renewed pain or if he was simply expressing annoyance at having his brain scanned. Or maybe he was put out by his hair being mussed. Then he unexpectedly said, "So is it completely destroyed?"

She wasn't sure for a moment what he was talking about. His hair? Surely not. Even someone so apparently vain about his hair wouldn't refer to it as destroyed just because it was a bit gooey. Then she realized he was referring to the EEG equipment. "How did you know…?" She stopped herself, then felt a flutter of amusement. "Oh. Right. Great big Time Lord brain. The EEG didn't stand a chance." He dropped his hand and raised an eyebrow at her. "That's what Jack said you'd say if you were awake. Anyway, it wasn't completely melted. Just burnt a bit."

He had a disappointed look on his face as he said, "Burnt? Is that all?"

She smiled at his chagrin. "Maybe charred is a better description." This was all so _normal_ , all so … straightforward and simple and … Doctorish. It felt for the briefest of moments as if the past month had never happened.

He closed his eyes and muttered defensively, "Charred isn't much better. Well, I wasn't exactly all there at the time." He was silent a moment, and she thought he wouldn't elaborate any further, but then he unexpectedly said, "Jack's not immortal any longer."

"He's not?" she asked, surprised at the blunt statement, then immediately added, "I mean, I know he's going to die eventually. We were there when he did." She paused, not sure how to continue, so she went for simple and straightforward. "What happened?"

He opened his eyes and stared out across the Hub, towards the waterfall. She was beginning to think he was lapsing into his habitual evasive silence, but then he said, "He was a fixed point in time, a fact, unmovable. Protected within a sort of temporal eddy. I interrupted that, just a fraction, but enough that little by little, very slowly, he'll be pulled back into the normal flow of time."

She wanted to ask for more detail because she was confused as to why or how this had happened, but she suspected he wasn't going to tell her the whole story. Instead, she asked, "Does he know?"

"Yes," the Doctor replied with a sigh. "He did it willingly. To help me. I'd…" He hesitated, shadows lurking in his gaze, then he shook his head slightly, and she knew she wasn't going to get any further explanation. It was something between him and Jack, and was likely to stay that way.

He cleared his throat and said quietly, "Anyway, it's done." He started to sit up, but then his eyes went wide and fluttered shut as he turned pale and start to list away from her.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asked in alarm as she grabbed his arm and reached across him to wrap her other hand around his side and pull him back to an upright position. Had she missed something? Was there some kind of internal injury she'd overlooked? Maybe he was still–

"It's okay," he said, his breath hitching and just shy of gasping as he slowly settled himself against the back of the couch again. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."

She pulled her arm out from behind him, and then something in her snapped. "It's not okay and you're not fine!" she nearly shouted at him, a slight bit of hysteria trying to grab hold of her. Too much stress, too much worry, for far too long. Their effects weren't going to disappear with a shower, clean clothes and a bit of breakfast.

"Martha," he said firmly, opening his eyes slowly and fixing her with a steady look. "I'll be fine. Really. It's just a bit of residual poison still running around in there. Don't worry, it won't hurt me. It's just making me a bit nauseous and lightheaded. My body will filter it out eventually."

She glared at him, trying to assess whether he was hiding anything from her, but his gaze remained steady. She decided to accept the explanation, but her nerves were still rattled. She pointed at his cheek and asked with a hint of accusation in her voice, "Why hasn't that healed yet?"

"Why hasn't what healed yet?" He lifted his fingers to his face and gently probed the area she'd indicated, wincing a bit as he did so. "Oh, you mean the bruises?"

"Yes, that." She knew she was starting to sound belligerent, but couldn't help herself. He gave a huge and very tired sigh, and she immediately felt a bit guilty for being so confrontational. "I'm sorry," she said in a softer, more controlled voice. "It's just that I'm worried about you."

He nodded and gave her a look that said he understood, then said, "Bruises don't have a very high priority when it comes to healing. My body's already used up a lot of resources taking care of the other injuries, so it'll be a bit longer before the bruises fade."

She nodded, internally berating herself for being so overwrought. They'd already surmised as much, but it was good to have the confirmation. There'd been far too much guessing recently. A feeling of helplessness was beginning to creep up on her again, though, and she had to sternly remind himself that he was here, he was alive, he was going to be fine. She could let go of the worry. Or she thought she could until he tried to shift his position a bit and his face creased in pain.

"It's okay," he said immediately, holding up a hand in reassurance. "Really. Just sore. My bones ache. Effect of losing so much blood, over and over…" He trailed off, something dark and hollow stirring in his eyes. Memories, no doubt. She swallowed against nausea. All those wounds…

He gave his head a quick shake. "I just need to eat. Well, I'll need to eat a lot. I'll probably have to eat myself silly for a week to replace all the bone marrow, but that's managed easily enough. With a bit of hopping about, that is. There are some substances my body needs that aren't native to Earth. Better to find them in all their natural glory than to mix them up in a lab. In fact, I intend to treat myself to some fine dining. Let's see, where to start…" He drifted off into thoughtful silence.

Martha found herself asking, "Would you like some company?" She was actually surprised with herself. She hadn't really considered such a thing before this moment, had been dead set against it in the past, but this was somehow different. Her instincts told her he needed someone right now, much as he would inevitably try to deny it.

He smiled gently at her as he said, "Why not. It's really no fun eating alone." Then he abruptly and fiercely yawned. He quickly covered his mouth and looked properly chagrined that he'd done such a thing. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just–"

"Tired," she finished for him, a smile briefly lifting the corners of her mouth. "Yes, I can tell. Do you want me to help you back to the TARDIS to have a rest before we leave?"

"No," he answered rather quickly, shaking his head. She thought there was a bit of irritation there, but he deftly hid it by leaning his head back and closing his eyes once more. "I'm fine here." He made his point by taking a deep breath, blowing it out slowly and lacing his fingers comfortably over his stomach.

A moment of silence passed, then he cracked an eye open and said with a touch of annoyance, "Are you going to sit there and stare at me then?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, dismayed at being caught out because she had been doing exactly that. "Sorry."

"Maybe you should check on Jack," he added, then pointedly closed his eye and visibly relaxed his body. There was still tension there, though, as if he were waiting for something. Probably for her to leave. She figured it must be massively frustrating and possibly even embarrassing to him to be so weak and unsteady, so she let him have his space and went back to the medbay.

As she was rechecking Jack's vitals, mostly to reassure Ianto and to give herself something to do while the Doctor rested, someone walked in the door, and she looked up to find Sara with a confused look on her face.

"Sara?" Martha asked. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "I'm fine. But what's going on here?" She gestured towards Jack, and added, "And where's the Doctor? Is he…" She didn't finish the question, but swallowed hard and looked at Martha with an expression of mixed hope and dread.

"He's fine," Martha quickly reassured her. "Well, almost fine. He's having a rest on the couch."

Now Sara looked even more befuddled. "The couch by the workstations?"

"Yes," Martha answered, the word drawn out by her own feeling of confusion, but it quickly began to burn away into anger. "He's not there, is he?"

Sara shook her head and started to say something, but Martha was already out the door. She noted the absence of both the Doctor and his coat from the couch and immediately headed for the hidden lift to take her up to the Plass. Her heart was beating fast and her breath coming in short pants as the platform slowly raised, but she let out a long gust of air as she reached the surface and saw the TARDIS still remained in the Plass. The initial sense of relief was quickly overtaken by a renewed surge of anger, though. How dare he sneak off like that when he was meant to be resting? And how had he managed it when he couldn't even sit up straight on his own?

Then she recalled the times in the past when he'd used his body's own reserves of adrenalin to push past exhaustion and injury. He might have done that now. But why? She shoved the question aside, though, in favor of relief that he hadn't run off entirely. She headed across the Plass at a quick jog, hoping she hadn't misjudged his willingness to wait for her, but she reached the TARDIS without event and quickly let herself in.

The Doctor's coat was on its habitual support strut, and he was standing by the control console, his face pale and sweating. As soon as he saw her, though, he began to push buttons and flip switches, sending the TARDIS off into the Vortex. He swayed as he moved, clutching the edge of the console periodically to steady himself. She stood and watched, not knowing what to say or do, caught in the thought that he looked so utterly odd dressed in an oversized t-shirt and loose track bottoms. Perhaps it was for the best, though, that his feet were still bare. The flexing of his feet and gripping of his toes seemed to be helping to keep him upright.

Once he'd gotten them fully underway, he leaned against the edge of the jump seat, his hands pressed to the edge of the seat on either side of him. "We'll have to make a stop to get some parts for repairs," he said, his voice a bit breathless. "Nothing serious. Just a bit of inaccuracy in the landings. I meant to repair it…" His voice trailed off as his eyes met hers.

"What?" he said defensively as he looked at her with eyes sunken in exhaustion, despite the adrenalin that was obviously still coursing through his system, causing him to occasionally twitch. "I waited for you."

"I know," she said, worry for him outweighing her annoyance at the fact that he'd stubbornly made his own way to the TARDIS and now had set them off towards a destination without so much as asking her if she was ready to go. "But you didn't have to get here by yourself. I offered to help you."

"I didn't want help!" he snapped. "I wanted – no, I _needed_ – to do something for myself. Can't you understand that? I've been helpless for so long, Martha. I… I couldn't…" He trailed off as he buried his face in his hands. It took her a moment to realize that the hitching of his shoulders had nothing to do with the effects of adrenalin.

She went to him and held him close while he sobbed into her shoulder, her own tears falling silently down her face. She held him until he was wrung out, his breath soft and warm and gently stuttering against her neck. Then she silently took his hand and led him down the halls of the TARDIS until she reached the room she had stayed in when she'd been traveling with him. She'd never found where his own bedroom was and didn't know for certain if he even had one. He needed rest now more than anything, though, and she didn't suppose it mattered where he laid his head.

He didn't protest at the destination, just crawled under the duvet with his back to her as he curled up with a bit of a shiver. She didn't stay to see if he fell asleep or simply laid there staring at the wall. She suspected he needed to be alone and so left him that way.

Her feet took her wandering to the kitchen, where she made a cup of tea, then sat down at the table to drink it. Her thoughts kept trying to stray into imaginings of what he'd gone through, but she steadfastly turned her mind again and again as close as she could get to blankness. Thoughts of him and worry for him kept creeping in, though, so she went to the library to find a book to read to distract her. She half-heartedly looked through a couple of shelves, picked a book at random, then sat down in the corner of the massive leather sofa in front of the fireplace, in which a cheery fire was crackling. She wondered if the fire was always lit, or if the TARDIS turned it on and off when people entered and left. It was warm, in any event, and she was glad of the small amount of comfort it provided. She soon drifted off into unsettled sleep.

The Doctor woke her some indeterminate time later – her watch claimed a few hours, but time was strange in the TARDIS. He was dressed as was his wont in suit and tie and Chucks, and he looked better for whatever rest he had gotten, although she noticed that the suit seemed to fit a little more loosely than they usually did on his frame. He seemed in a cheerful mood, or at least was assuming a positive outlook. He didn't sit, though, just told her they'd arrived and asked her if she'd like to freshen up before leaving the TARDIS.

She went to her room and found the bed neatly made, looking as if he'd never been there. Of course he would've wanted to remove all trace of what she could only describe as a breakdown, and a fairly major one in her experience of the Doctor. She was glad of her decision to accompany him.

Since she'd so recently been at Gwen's, she didn't need to do much more than run a brush through her hair. She was quickly back in the control room, the Doctor waiting at the door wearing his coat, looking for all the world as if he'd stepped back in time to before his ordeal. As she approached him more closely, though, she could see faint smudges under his eyes and a general appearance of someone having recovered from a long illness. It was a look she knew well, but she didn't like seeing it on the Doctor. It was all too out of place.

And so began what Martha could only described as a whirlwind tour of galactic cuisine, everything from grand, gilded dining halls with many courses of esoteric offerings, to homely inns serving simple fare. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said he'd need to eat a lot. "Gorge" didn't even begin to cover it, and the variety of food was staggering. She tried some of the same foods he ate, ventured out into her own culinary territory on occasion, and patently avoided some of the things he devoured with relish. Once she even had to ask to be reseated at another table across the room because what he was eating smelled so foul that she couldn't help but gag.

They returned to the TARDIS between meals, and he mostly disappeared to "rest and digest," as he put it. There was one trip to a planet that seemed to be filled with nothing but scrap heaps so the Doctor could negotiate with an odd little man in dingy overalls for the parts he needed to repair the TARDIS. There was tinkering from time to time after that, with the odd bit of swearing and spewing sparks and steam, but he finally declared himself happy with the results.

She filled the time with reading, actually enjoying perusing the contents of the library now that he was improving in condition, and sleeping when it seemed appropriate and she was tired enough to do so. She did finally ask him outright if he had a bedroom on the TARDIS, and he replied that of course he did, but he didn't elaborate beyond that. She also rummaged in the TARDIS wardrobe, eventually managing to put together a few outfits that would suit her, much needed considering she'd embarked on this expedition with only the clothing on her back.

One day, the elusive book on Time Lord biology appeared on the table next to the sofa, but it was partially redacted by means of incomplete translation from Gallifreyan to English. Many pages remained a whirl of incomprehensible glyphs. She supposed he didn't want her to know everything (she could well imagine that reproduction and associated anatomy were among the untranslated sections), but she did at least learn where he was putting all that food. Time Lords apparently had a ridiculous amount of bone marrow stored under high pressure in the major bones, which were accordingly sturdy. It would take a massive amount of trauma to break one, but if it did actually happen, the aftermath was horribly messy and rather traumatic in its own right. She could see the positives of having so much marrow – it was what had saved the Doctor's life, after all – but the aftermath of a broken bone was not something she ever wanted to witness or, God forbid, have to deal with. She didn't eat very much for a couple of meals after reading that bit and resorted to herbal tea in between.

Everything seemed to be going well, the Doctor nearly recovered as far as Martha could tell, when he suffered a setback, or maybe it was simply an inevitable obstacle that he had to overcome in order to put the entire experience in some sort of perspective. They were dining on that particular evening in a pavilion with open sides set in a garden very much like one that would be found on Earth in England. It was raining when they arrived, and the gentle pattering of the rain on the roof was pleasantly relaxing. The clouds cleared midway through the meal, though, and the light of the double moons shone through, the illumination silvery like that of Earth's moon. The scent of wet soil and night-blooming flowers wafted into the pavilion, and Martha took a deep breath and leaned back in her seat with her eyes closed, enjoying the freshness of the night air.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a chair being abruptly pushed back next to her, and she opened her eyes to see the Doctor retreating into the garden and vanishing among the plants. She followed him as quickly as she could without upsetting the other diners, although there were some turned heads, including that of a woman standing on the other side of the pavilion. She had strikingly pale skin and long, dark hair, but she seemed confused as to the cause of the commotion. Still, Martha wondered if she had something to do with the Doctor's unexpected departure.

Martha followed the path the Doctor had taken, winding through plants dripping with moisture until she found him seated on a stone bench, hunched over with his fingers laced behind his neck and his gasping breath sounding loud in the quiet night air. She sat down beside him and gently laid her hand on his back, but he flinched at her touch, so she drew back and said as calmly as she could, "Doctor? Are you all right?"

"No. No I'm not," he said raggedly, with a shake of his head.

"What is it?" she asked, trying to remain composed but finding it difficult. "Was it the food?"

"No," he muttered tersely, but didn't offer any further explanation.

"Doctor, please tell me what's wrong." There was no response. "Was it that woman?" Martha ventured, not immediately able to think of anything else. "The one with the pale skin and the dark hair?"

There was a long pause, then he nodded his head. "She reminded me of _them_ ," he said roughly. Martha felt a bolt of panic at the admission that the woman looked like the Plasmavores – it was obvious to her what he meant by "them" – but he hadn't run away entirely, and he'd left Martha behind, so the woman couldn't possibly actually be one of them.

"She's _not_ one of them," he said in a slightly trembling voice, then took a deep, heaving breath and scrubbed his hands over his face as he sat up straight. "She's not a Plasmavore at all as near as I can tell, but the way she looks, and the rain and the moonlight, and the wet earth…"

Martha's quickened heartbeat refused to settle despite the reassurance and was joined by a surge of nausea, hot and bitter. She hadn't looked at the bodies that had come back from Crickhowell, couldn't bring herself to do so, but now she had some idea of what they'd looked like. It was evident that he'd had some kind of flashback. She wasn't quite sure what to do to address it, though. She wasn't a psychologist, and she was fairly certain any attempts on her part to act like one would be rebuffed by him.

So she waited in silence until he looked down at the ground and said softly but clearly, "I killed them, you know. The Plasmavores. Poisoned them. That's why there was poison in my blood."

She nodded, even though he wasn't looking at her. Another supposition confirmed. "I know," she said gently, and she had to rein herself in from offering platitudes that would surely shut the conversation down.

After a moment, he said sadly and somewhat plaintively, "I didn't want to do it, but the consequences…" And then he told her about the vision he'd had of the shadows and the spreading darkness that would've come after his death, all the people who would've been killed if the Plasmavores had escaped, all the destruction that would've followed. "I had to find a way to stop it from happening, and I couldn't think of any other way at the time than to kill them," he finished.

She wanted to offer him some assurance that what he'd done was the right thing, even necessary, but she knew how much it pained him to take a life, no matter the circumstances. She couldn't keep silent on the theory that had come into her head, though. "Did it never occur to you that the darkness wasn't because of the Plasmavores?"

"What do you mean?" he asked uncertainly, glancing at her sideways. "What else could it have been?"

"You. Your death." He turned a bit more towards her and looked at her in confusion, so she elaborated. "All the people you've helped, all the disasters you've averted. There's so much good you've done, and without you in the Universe, all that would stop. The darkness would grow."

"Martha," he interrupted sharply. "Stop. Please. Just stop."

She didn't understand at first why he would be upset at her pointing out the positive impact of his existence, but then she realized it might seem to him that she was trying to justify his killing of the Plasmavores to save himself. Perhaps it was easier for him to believe he'd killed them to stop what they might've done after he was dead. But she couldn't leave it at that. "You _are_ worth saving, you know," she said with as much conviction as she could manage to put into her voice.

He turned away from her with a sigh, neither arguing nor agreeing. She had no idea what was going through his head, and the only emotion she could identify on his face was sadness.

After a long moment of silence, he stood and held out his hand to her. "Come on, then."

"Where are we going now?" she asked as she also stood and took his hand. His skin seemed cooler than usual, but that could've been the night air. The temperature wasn't quite brisk, but it seemed chillier to her now than when they had arrived.

"One last place," he said cryptically with a smile that seemed only partially forced.

That place turned out to be Earth, specifically Hawaii. He took her to a luau, saying he needed a bit of taro to finish out his body's replenishment, and that meant poi. She grimaced because she'd heard the stuff was disgusting, but he quickly reassured her that he wasn't taking her to just any tourist trap luau. This one had genuine, fresh poi, not something from a plastic packet. It turned out to be quite tasty, as was the rest of the varied Polynesian menu.

The setting was beautiful as well, on the oceanfront in Lahaina, and as they ate, they watched the sun set. There was an overall sense of calm to the evening, even despite the Polynesian music and dancing, and when the last course had been served and the entertainment was over, they walked in silence back to the TARDIS.

He didn't take her home straightaway, though. He landed on a lava flow, although one that had cooled enough to stand on. She was hesitant to leave the protection of the TARDIS, but he walked right out and turned to look at her. "It's quite safe," he said. "I scanned it. It's solid through to the ground."

His words didn't quite reassure her, but she stepped out nonetheless, and stood in a combination of fear and awe as she watched the glow of lava in the distance, lighting up the steam that was rising skywards as molten rock entered the ocean. It was an amazing sight, as was the brightness of the stars above them.

"You're standing on some of the newest land on the face of the planet, Martha," the Doctor said quietly, turning towards her to give her a smile that seemed finally genuine. There was still something unsettled in his eyes, but she supposed that was the best she could hope for.

"New beginnings," she replied. And she knew it was time to go home.


	13. Epilogue - Always and Never Alone

Epilogue – "Always and Never Alone"

When Jack woke up, he found himself in his own bed, tucked under blankets, warm and comfortable. The last thing he remembered was a jumble of pain and burning and falling and joy, but before that was a hazy memory of the Doctor looking at him with tears in his eyes, then kissing him full on the lips. And afterwards the whisper of a voice, the Doctor's voice, speaking – or had it been singing, ever so quietly? – in a language unlike any he'd ever heard before. Must've been a dream. But it had been so vivid. Something was niggling at him, though, a persistent sense of having lost something valuable and yet having gained something so much more precious in return.

Death. He sat bolt upright. He could die now. Well, not now, but he would one day. One day there'd be a death that he wouldn't wake from. A brief chill passed through him, but he shrugged it off, set morbid thoughts aside. For now and the foreseeable future, his life would go on as it had before.

He started to get out of bed and belatedly realized how weak he was. His legs trembled and gave out, depositing him back on the bed with a thump. "Okay," he said to himself. "Let's try that again, a little more slowly." This time, he managed to stand up and stay up. He took a moment to steady himself, then carefully dressed and pulled himself step by weary step up the ladder and out of his sleeping space. He was gasping for air by the time he got to the top of the stairs. Apparently becoming mortal again took a bit out of a person.

He shuffled over to his desk and collapsed into the chair, taking a moment to catch his breath. He glanced down into the Hub, but didn't see anyone there. "Where the hell is everyone?" he muttered. He pulled his phone over to him and started going through every extension in the Hub. His frustration grew with each unanswered call. Was this some kind of joke?

Then he heard the blast door rolling open and turned to look out the window facing the workspaces. Ianto and Gwen were coming up the stairs, Ianto carrying two pizza boxes and Gwen with a shopping tote. Jack thought about charging out at them and giving them a piece of his mind, but it seemed that even standing up at the moment would be a challenge. Instead, he sat there fuming until Ianto noticed him sitting at the desk and gave him a little wave. Jack glared. Ianto and Gwen looked at each and laughed.

"You're right," Gwen said, the amusement in her voice carrying over to Jack. "He _is_ cranky when he wakes up."

They cheerfully entered his office, bringing the pizza and what must be drinks because Gwen's tote was making familiar clinking sounds. His stomach growled at the smell of cheese and pepperoni and his mouth began watering at the prospect of some Guinness to wash it down, but mentally he told both of them to shut the hell up. He was busy being angry.

"Where the hell is everyone?" He repeated his earlier question, keeping his voice controlled and resisting the urge to add more force and volume. The quiet and menacing approach always worked better than yelling in his experience. Not that he thought anyone would be particularly daunted by him at the moment. His hair must be sticking out in a million directions and his mouth felt like something had crawled in there and died.

"Well," Gwen said, setting the tote down on Jack's desk. "I'm here, you're there, Ianto's there, obviously." She pointed to each of them in turn. Ianto had set the pizza boxes down and was pulling paper plates and serviettes out of the tote. "Sara's at home. Have I left anyone out?"

"The Doctor. Where's the Doctor?" Jack said impatiently. "And I seem to recall that Martha was here as well," he added sarcastically.

"Oh. They left," Ianto replied. "Together. In the TARDIS. Rather abruptly. Or at least we assume they did because we haven't seen either one since, and the TARDIS is gone, so…" His face scrunched into a frown. "Should we be worried?"

Jack pressed his lips together in frustration, then forced himself to take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. He wasn't surprised that the Doctor had stolen away, but he was somewhat taken aback by the fact that Martha had gone with him. She must've been worried about him, after all he'd been through. "Did he seem okay to you?" The question was a bit reluctant and hesitant, but he needed to know.

Ianto raised his eyebrows and tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose. I didn't get much of a look at him. I was a bit more concerned about what he'd done to you, which I'm still not certain of. All he said was that you'd be fine after some sleep." Ianto obviously wanted to know more, but he didn't press. He knew Jack very well indeed.

Gwen must've sensed some tension in the short silence that followed because she put in, "And did you ever sleep! It's been a week today. I think Ianto would've stayed by your bedside the entire time, but the snoring finally drove him away." She winked at Ianto, and he looked at Jack and shrugged his shoulders.

Jack bypassed the snoring comment. He didn't snore. They were obviously having him on about that. "A week? Really?" He rubbed at his face. No beard, not even any stubble.

Ianto gestured at his chin and said, "I took care of that. Beards really don't suit you. Do they, Gwen?"

"No, definitely not. Much better to have a baby face to match the baby blues."

"Oh, that's very funny," Jack said, grabbing at the opportunity to divert both of them from any further questions about what had passed between him and the Doctor. He really didn't want to talk about it just yet. He needed time to process what had happened. "I might even manage to laugh if you give me some of that pizza. And there'd better not be any pineapple with the pepperoni."

"Oops." Ianto smiled sheepishly, but Gwen nudged him with her elbow.

"Ianto, don't tease the poor man. After all, he was so cute and sweet when we got him to sleepwalk down that ridiculous ladder into that pit he calls a bedroom. All stumbling and mumbling, and then he curled up clutching his pillow like a baby."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a comment," Jack said sternly.

"Then perhaps I shouldn't mention the drooling," Ianto said dryly.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Jack protested. "I do _not_ drool or snore or clutch at my pillow like a baby!"

Gwen and Ianto looked at each other, obviously suppressing laughs, then Ianto cleared his throat and looked at Jack very seriously as he said, "Very well, then. We'll allow 'The World According to Jack Harkness' to reign for the moment."

Jack feigned a growl, then demanded, "Pizza. Now. And that'd better be Guinness in that bag."

"Ooh, I love it when you get all forceful," Ianto said, and did he actually bat his eyes? He did produce the Guinness from the depths of the shopping tote, though.

Gwen snorted. "I'll just be taking my pizza," she said as she opened one of the boxes and deposited two slices on a plate and tossed a couple of serviettes on top of them. "And my Guinness," she continued as she snagged a bottle. "And I'm leaving now." She paused at the door, though, and turned back with a smile and a shake of her head. "Incorrigible, the two of you. You're meant for each other."

After she'd gone, Ianto gave Jack a smug look. "Did you hear that? 'Meant for each other.'"

Jack rolled his eyes. "I'm far too old for that kind of romantic crap, but you go ahead and wallow in it if you like."

Ianto smiled and said with a twinkle in his eye, "I do so love to wallow. Now, eat."

"You sound like Martha," Jack grumbled as he leaned over and selected the largest slice of pizza.

"Yes, well, I have a feeling she might hold me responsible if she returns and finds you in less than optimal condition." He gave a slight grimace as he added, "And I certainly don't want the Doctor to take issue either. I'd rather not have that sonic screwdriver anywhere near me."

Jack couldn't help but laugh heartily, and it felt ridiculously good.

* * *

A few hours later, Gwen had gone home for the evening and Ianto was in Jack's bed, snoring, drooling, _and_ clutching the pillow like a baby. Jack had no interest in more sleep, though, so he'd taken a shower and changed into a clean set of his usual trousers, shirt and braces. He was taking a stroll around the Hub, working the last of the kinks and aches out of his body after so long lying in bed during the past week, when he heard a familiar sound – the TARDIS rematerializing. He looked around, the acoustics in the huge, open space making it difficult to pinpoint the source of the sound, but he quickly caught sight of the familiar blue police box sitting square on top of the concrete platform of the hidden lift.

The door squeaked open and the Doctor appeared. He gave a quick wave and said absently, "Hello, Jack," then hopped down the short distance to the floor and crouched down to peer under the TARDIS. "Did you know you cut the concrete two millimeters two small?"

"I'd say two millimeters is pretty damn impressive," Jack replied, "considering we couldn't detect the exact edges of the perception field and were working from my estimate of the TARDIS's size." He eyed the Doctor carefully as he spoke, but he seemed to be moving about with his usual restless energy.

"Not bad as far as guesses go, I suppose." The Doctor was running a finger along the bottom edge of the TARDIS, still not looking directly at Jack, which concerned him a bit. Had restoring the Doctor's connection to Time brought back his sense of Jack's Wrongness in full force? "This will bring the effect of the perception field back up to full strength at any rate. It was starting to fade."

"Oh. I thought I was just getting used to it. Thanks." His tone was flat and his words uncertain. He wasn't quite sure what to expect here.

The Doctor finally stood up and smiled at Jack, but he couldn't be quite certain if it was genuine or forced. The Doctor's voice didn't sound strained, and his face actually looked more relaxed than Jack had seen it had in a long time. He looked closely for some sort of crack in the facade, but he couldn't find one. For the moment, he seemed relatively calm and at peace.

The smile partially faded off the Doctor's face. "Well?" he said, a bit of uncertainty creeping into his voice. "Aren't you going to say anything? You're not angry with me for leaving without saying goodbye, are you? I couldn't exactly give you a proper goodbye when you were unconscious."

Just then, Martha appeared from inside the TARDIS, a rucksack slung over her shoulder. "Right," she said. "I think I've got everything now. You forgot this on the console, by the way." She handed him something small and silver. The Doctor took the object and held it towards Jack. He automatically put his hand out and stared at the small, metallic cube the Doctor deposited there.

"You said you wanted that back," the Doctor muttered offhandedly, then turned back to Martha. "Martha, Jack seems to think I should've said goodbye to him when he was unconscious. Tell him there was no point in saying goodbye to him when he was unconscious."

Martha rolled her eyes, then smiled at Jack. "There was no point in saying goodbye to you while you were unconscious." She stepped over and slid her arms around him to give him a big hug, then pulled back and looked at him very seriously. "It's good to see you again. How long have you been awake?"

"Five hours, give or take." He really and truly felt like he'd stepped into the Twilight Zone. This was all too surreal, too _normal_. He wondered how long they'd been gone on their timeline. He really, really hated being on the stationary end of time travel.

Martha shot a scathing glance at the Doctor. "You said you were going to bring us back here right after he woke up."

"Well," the Doctor tugged his ear and scuffed his foot against the floor. "I didn't know _exactly_ down to the second when he'd be waking up. And I thought I'd give him a couple of hours to get over being angry at us for running off." He gave Jack a meek look. "Not long enough?"

"I wasn't really angry." He paused, then added, "Maybe a little." He felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. His feeling of unease was fading. "So how long have you been gone anyway?"

"Oh, probably a couple of weeks is all," Martha said and shrugged, then added for the Doctor's benefit, "And don't tell me exactly how many days, hours and seconds. Inexact approximations are quite enough for me." She turned her attention back to Jack and added, "Holiday's over now. I have a life to get back to, you know. Or a new life to figure out anyway. He'll have to be someone else's problem now."

"Oi!" the Doctor said indignantly. "I am not a problem! Occasionally problematical, maybe, but not a problem!"

She grinned at him, said, "Well, maybe more of a challenge." She turned serious then, held her arms out to him. "Goodbye, then."

He wrapped her in a hug, pressed his face briefly into her neck, then stepped back and looked at her searchingly. "Don't give up on a normal life, Martha. At least find your own kind of normal and don't let it go. John Smith wasn't real. You are." Sudden tears sprang to her eyes and she looked at him a long moment before nodding and throwing her arms around him in a crushing embrace. The Doctor's face above her shoulder was soft and sad. He squeezed his eyes shut against tears forming in his own eyes.

Jack looked away. It was a private moment, a hidden reaction he hadn't been meant to see. He realized it always hurt the Doctor. No matter how his companions left him, willingly or not, alive or not, whole and sane or not, even if it was possible he'd see them again someday, the leave-taking always tore a little piece of him away. And then Jack had to suck in a wave of anguish almost unbearably sharp in its truth. It was almost a foregone conclusion that he'd see the Doctor again and again over the millennia to come. But Martha… It was only right and fitting that the Doctor should feel that goodbye so much more keenly for the rarity it would be.

They finally let go of each other, and Martha slid her arms up to the Doctor's shoulders, stood tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek before turning towards Jack. The Doctor followed her gaze, then much to Jack's surprise, walked over to him and pulled him into a warm embrace. Jack found himself automatically trying to sense any sign of unease in the Doctor, and perhaps there was some tension there. Probably too much wishful thinking to believe he'd somehow been mended and was no longer any sort of Wrong. Still, the Doctor held on for a long moment, and now Jack was blinking against treacherous wetness in his own eyes. They were all going to end up sobbing if this went on much longer.

Then the Doctor pulled back, but still held firmly to Jack's arms as he looked him straight in the eye. For just a moment Jack thought he could see the flowing currents and swirling eddies of time there in the Doctor's eyes, but then Jack blinked and the moment passed.

"Thank you again," the Doctor said, his voice cracking a little. "I… I don't know what else to say."

"You don't need to say anything else. Just…" Jack paused, not sure he should even ask this of the Doctor. "Be there at the end, if you can."

The Doctor released Jack's arms, and Jack wondered if he'd somehow overstepped an unseen boundary, but then a knowing little smile passed over the Doctor's face as he said, "Oh, I will be. I can promise you that."

Jack realized with a start that it must've already happened for the Doctor. He hadn't twigged to that before. There was a bit of temptation to ask when or where it would be, but really, he didn't want to know. He'd just have to go the long way around and find out for himself.

"Well, I'd better be going," the Doctor said, shaking off the seriousness of the moment. "Places to go, people to see."

"Trouble to get into," Martha added.

"I resent the implications of that," he replied, drawing himself up indignantly.

"No, you resemble that," Jack muttered under his breath.

"I heard that, Jack. Nothing wrong with my ears, even though they're not as big as they used to be." He gave a wry grin and one last wave, then turned and went into the TARDIS.

As the brief wind of the TARDIS dematerializing fluttered around them, Jack said quietly, "He seems in better spirits than he has for a long time."

Martha smiled faintly. "He is, I think. Sometimes it's hard to tell with him."

The TARDIS was gone now, and Martha sighed. Instead of saying anything profound or serious as Jack was half-expecting, though, she said, "I could murder a pizza. Do you know that you can't get pizza anywhere else in the universe?"

He laughed and linked his arm into hers. "I ate a while ago, but I'm hungry again. I've got a week of not eating to make up for." She grinned in return and started to lead him towards the blast door, but he pulled her towards the hidden lift instead. "Let's take the scenic route. We can make faces and rude gestures at passersby to see if the perception filter really is back in full force."

"Honestly, Jack, you're such a child sometimes. It's really unseemly, as old as you are."

"Hey, if the Doctor can get away with it, why can't I?" He paused and stood still for a moment as a sudden thought occurred to him. "You know, I hadn't realized – I'm now older than he is."

"Oh, you're going to be ridiculously older than him before the end."

He stared at her stunned, and she looked back with gentle and sad eyes. "You're going to be there, too," he said slowly. "You were with the Doctor when it happened."

"Yes," she said quietly. "But it'll be a long time before you get there. Let it alone for now."

He looked away, then slipped his arm behind her back and pulled her close. They stepped onto the platform of the hidden lift together, and he looked up into the vast space above as they rose. "I'm in no hurry." None at all. He was just going to _be_ , and do and live, for as long as he was able. The end would wait for him. At least he knew there would be an end now. And that was the strangest sort of comfort he had ever known.

* * *

The End


End file.
